you know what would be hot…..a clark kent x the boy is mine mv cross over.
tags: pwp, handjobs, congressman!clark, cum eating, psycho!reader, breaking and entering, slight angst, body worship (700+ wc)
—
the television screen, mocking, casts a white glow across the room. clark doesn't recall turning it on, much less the news airing of superman in city hall, a news coverage from earlier in the day.
he turns to the source of his own speech, smiling, being the picture of hope when he felt like a complete imposter. his gaze is locked on the intruder — a figure perched on his duvet covers. it doesn't scare or deter him when he finally takes you in, the glass that was stilled, presses to his lips as he takes a healthy gulp.
"you've been…a busy little problem this week." he says after a beat, "making my job…more complicated than it had to be."
you grin at his gentle chiding, kicking your legs off his bed with a glint in your eyes. "complicated or better?" he tiredly moves across the space, turning the television off.
"just making your life easier, handsome."
clark's jaw visibly twitches at your purr, his glass of water thudding against the polished wood by his nightstand.
"…i wouldn't call breaking into my home in the middle of the night making things 'easier'."
your hand snaps out, gripping tightly around his wrist before he thinks to put a polite space between you both, and he lands on the edge of his bed. a surprised sound leaving him.
clark lets out a resigned, weary exhale. "listen. i don't have the energy for this."
your lips twitch. the insinuation was clear — he didn't have the energy for you.
"don't you wanna just…not feel at all? for once?"
your offer briefly hangs in the air, colliding with the gentle patters of rainfall hitting the floor-to-ceiling windows. "that's…pretty impossible. i feel everything."
"i know," you whisper, sympathetically, knuckles grazing past his sternum. "i see you working…so so hard. but it hurts here, doesn't it?"
the fabric there is dampened from his quick-drench in the fly back home, "that's not — … you don't get it, all of it is some…pathetic performance. this sham of a superhero congress…it's all pretend." he chokes.
"tell me where it hurts, congressman."
clark's jaw tenses as you shift closer, the veins tensing his pulse when your thighs rest flush against his. "everything," he admits, broken, "aches everywhere. behind my eyes, a constant gosh-darned headache —"
his breath stills when as your shadows case him, a hand comes up to grip your shoulder, flexing there. "my hands, they shake at all the promises i can't keep because this job is —"
you peel his hand off your shoulder to kiss at his knuckles, to his palm and his wrists.
" — i-is going against…everything i stand for. my chest just hurts from the lies i constantly find myself telling."
clark doesn't get to the end of his sentence as you lower your head, leaning in to trail gentle kisses down the column of his throat, where the rasp and shake of his voice felt warm against your lips. he relaxes with a low groan at the gesture that finally gets him to crumble.
"i can make it quiet." you promise in a soft whisper, sliding your hands past his belt to undo his buckle. "where does it really hurt?"
he let's his forehead slump against your shoulders.
"just … everywhere you aren't touching."
your admission makes your moves decisive, kneading him over his boxers. clark's body responds instinctively, hardening like rock under your touch. his breath warms your cheeks, ragged and full of guilt.
"this…isn't me." he manages, muffled in your skin.
clark's cock grows fully erect in your palms, his thick and rigid length pulsing with its own heartbeat, eager for friction.
you kiss his clothed bicep, forming a tight ring with your fingers around him, inviting the micro-nudges he makes, bucking subconsciously into your palms. clark hisses as you drag down to the base, dry-rubbing his cock.
it doesn't take long for his arousal to coat his entire length, making it easier for your hard jerks, "i didn't earn this."
you shake your head quickly, "you deserve this. all of it. you've worked — " your voice cracks from its intent delivery, pitching to a whine when he throbs in your palms, " — so, so fucking hard. you deserve everything."
clark's protest comes in the form of a strained whine, his hips, a mind of its own, pistons into the tight, hot ring of your palms. "no…i-i don't. traded — mmhn…hahh…m-my super-suit, for some cheque u-upgrade."
you watch clark with bated breath, his control slipping the more frenzied he thrusts, "no. you've helped people. and — fuck, wanna milk you until you're soft — until you're not feeling any pain."
clark's body grows taut at your confession, feeling nothing but the truth with the shake of your voice. he curses under his breath, spilling hot and thick over your fists. it coats your knuckles completely.
you hum in content, bringing your cum-slick palm to your lips, locking your gaze with his as you lap his release off your digits.
"gosh…you're — nuts." he rasps, the awe in his voice evident. and despite himself, his cock only twitches at the gesture.
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: Staying at work late to impress the new editor-in-chief proves to be something Clark Kent isn't equipped to handle — KENT: Furniture-Breaking Collab
𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆/𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐆𝐎𝐑𝐘: Explicit/F!Reader
𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: pwp, editor-in-chief!reader, public indecency, sexual tension, push & pull dynamics, comedy, pathetic!clark
𝐖/𝐂: 2.3k
The Daily Planet had a problem.
A 'copy' room that sat in a converted storage closet. One that had barely enough space for a single machine, lovingly known as Joseph, which Perry White graciously funded. (Stole, from the unoccupied offices on the fifteenth floor.) He quickly became a hot commodity around the office, as the only printer that could cough up a hundred pages a minute. One that would never jam, and actually senses your fear to work faster.
By the end of the evening, Joseph's whines could be felt through the drywalls of the quiet office. The poor guy was on his very last breath, being put to use every waking minute. Thankfully, the bullpen had cleared out by the time the second work hours had come to an end, all except one, Clark Kent.
He stuck around when everyone else had left — wanting to spend their Friday nights anywhere but the pit of doom and despair. On a work ethic level, Clark didn't think it was nice to leave the office with the boss still around.
At least that was the reason that remained much more appropriate than 'he had a big fat crush on the editor that everyone hated the guts of.'
Clark would never admit how much he liked being needed. Being the one person you relied on, and showed sides you hadn't shown to other people. He thrived on that feeling.
And it's also what had him stuffing himself into the sorry space of a closet at eight-thirty in the evening on a little errand you sent him on. Crouched down, eye level with Joseph, his dying breath that came in the form of a little red light had been blinking right at its perpetrator.
"That means…it's all out of juice. Okay."
He lifts the panels. Huh.
There was a sad little stack of paper, more than enough to not have caused the loud noise it had made earlier. Clark remained awkwardly stuffed in the little corner after refilling the tray with more paper as an added measure. "Okay…okay…" The rooms echoed with his borderline maniacal mumbles to himself, panic coursing right to his belly.
His jacket came off soon after, left abandoned behind him. Sleeves rolled up and forearms oiled up with printer lube, which he did not know was a thing.
"….Not the rollers, not paper…" Clark then peeks over to the Reddit thread he had opened, listing off the potential reasons why Joseph was messing with him now, of all times. The machine whines as he carefully peels off the side panels, in an attempt to peek into the insides.
"Clark?"
He stiffens. The sound of your voice pairs with his rather unglamorous bonk against Joseph.
"Y-yes, miss —… yes ma'am."
Clark remains on his knees on the tile, submissively poised as you take a drag over his state at present. His stark, white shirt had a darkened, greasy smear across the chest, levelled with an open paper tray.
"I was wondering what was taking so long with the printing." Your heels mockingly click louder on the tiles, stopping short of the printer. Then, with a tilt of your head, "is there a problem?"
"No!" He blurts, rising too quickly, damn near snagging his tie wedged in the shims of the printer.
The ill-timed stumble he takes forces him closer in the already cramped space. You don't flinch, holding your ground instinctively. And you soon regret it.
Clark unfurls to his full height. Your gaze, which once rested on his crooked glasses, is faced with a wide stretch of white. Slowly, you pull it higher, settling right around his collarbone when you feel the strain in your neck just from looking up. His warmth is immediate, stifling the narrow sliver of air you had between him and his chest — that rose and dipped heavily in your eyeline.
Your breath hitches.
"Not to worry! I've got it handled." You note that his voice extends a pitch higher, one that is too quick and obvious, "just uh — … this ol' thing is giving me a little bit of…trouble."
"Mm." You turn on a heel in seconds, which helps ease the thumping in your heart, rolling your sleeves up to your elbows as you attempt to lift the cartridge door with both hands. Clark flounders behind you to hold it steady as you lift it, his forearms coming to bracket your own.
Your body involuntarily stills at his sudden proximity, a much sturdier chest grazes past your back.
He had to be doing this on purpose.
"…Rollers?"
"Done. Lubed him up, no dice." He exhales roughly through his nose. Jaw ticking at the stark betrayal from his own namesake. You notice the way Clark trails off, staring hard at the printer as though he could see through the contraption.
"…Him? " You mouth, at the apparent pronoun use for the printer.
"Uh …" he clears his throat, gesturing weakly to the printer. "…Joseph." He says simply.
"Right." You murmur, biting the insides of your cheeks in an attempt to squash the smirk that threatens to make its way out. "Let me have a look."
Clark backs away, with both palms raised. "I mean…you can. But I've looked at it pretty…thoroughly."
"Yeah, it's probably the outlet."
"I doubt it's the outlet." He insists, with that too-eager Superman ego that spilt over sometimes.
You look up at him, stubborn, your fingers squeezing by the hem to inch them higher in a decisive motion. "Wouldn't be an issue if I double-checked, then."
The ID Card attached to your lanyard swings over your shoulder as you get down to your knees, lowering yourself until your forearms lie flush to the ground.
"Uh…maybe I should help —"
You don't acknowledge the thick, pained swallow that followed his words.
Defiantly, you stretch further in, hips tilted back in a deeper arch. Your softer, whispered grunts of effort, genuine despite your intentions.
"Anything back there?"
Clark sounded absolutely wrecked behind you.
He had no choice but to remain so very still, to focus his sights on that loose thread by the hem of your skirt, that was straining…and tightening around the fat of your thighs —
"Little to your left."
You look over your shoulder for a second, catching sight of Clark's oxfords tapping on the tiles incessantly after he blurts out his gratuitous commentary. "Thanks." Your arms stretch out further, forcing an arch.
Clark gulps audibly, his breath catching when the hem of your button-down rides up. The thicker waistband of your skirt dips just enough to reveal a teasing glimpse of your lower back. You make no effort to adjust it back down.
"Chief…"
"Ah!" You rasp, feeling one of the Ethernet cables disconnected, right where he pointed it out. "Told you. Let me try to get this thing in."
Clark exhales in a short-lived relief.
"C'mon…Joseph."
His grip tightens as it finds itself on the sides of the machine, plastic creaking beneath his grip. The sound that escapes your throat is a low and satisfied hum, a sound that heads straight to his core.
Your own palm pats the machine in victory when it whirrrs in approval. When you glance up, Clark's hand was held out for you, with an eerie calmness washing his features, a picture of perfect composure.
You frown, pulling yourself up with his help.
"Give it a try again, it should work this time."
Expected that he hadn't taken the bait, you suppose. That move was cheugy, even for you.
It takes you a quick adjustment to your skirt to snap back into your usual persona. "Right. So, bring the copies to me when you're…— done?!"
Your palms smack down onto Joseph's lid. A surprised gasp at the rough tug toward Clark's chest.
"Whoa! Hey."
His forehead slumps to the back of your shoulders. "You can't be…doing that."
You don't try to argue, not immediately at least. Offering nothing but a stifled laugh when you feel the hard line pressed to your back, "looks like Joseph's up."
"I — that's because you were deliberately egging me!" He tries. Only to be cut off by the actual printers starting screen flashing at him.
Clark pulls back from you. Dragging a hand down his face. "I'm sorry. None of this is you. I misread it."
You turn to face Clark, leaned back against the printer. Before he wallows more in self-pity, your finger curls by the loop of his belt, forcing him a step closer.
"No…" you hum, thoughtfully, dragging a finger to the metallic buckle, "…read it pretty accurately."
Clark lets out a soft whimper, his palms coming to brace beside your hips, "I-I did?"
"Yeah." You breathe, wetting your lips instinctively. "You did."
His eyes shakily shuts, the loud click of his belt being undone resounding loud in the smaller space, his arousal rigid against his slacks. The zipper comes next, and only then does Clark grab your wrist, not to stop you, but to level you.
"This…I'm not letting you do this because…you're Chief. Or anything."
You huff out a laugh at his shaky words, "that's what you're thinking about?"
His lips press taut, gripping harder around the printer tray. Tips of his ears turning pink in embarrassment. Your knuckles drag past his zipper, nudging where his tip would be through his boxers.
You watch as his head slumps low while you tug the navy fabric past his length. Clark shudders softly at the cooled air hitting him. "Not…anymore." He manages, his hand tangling itself at the back of your head.
"What are you thinking about now?" You whisper. Squeezing him, teasingly.
The gentle pressure tightens, and in a quick decision, he turns you over swiftly. A steady palm nudges you to bend at the hips, your forearms presses on Joseph.
His idle palm on your lower back slides down to your thighs, pulling your skirt up to your hips. "This…" He mumbles, strained. You squeeze your legs together, ankles crossing over one another expectantly at his move.
"Shit…Clark," your voice drops to a whisper, appreciatively lifting your hips higher for him. He gets the memo, muttering incoherently to himself at the sight you offered.
Oh gosh. This is coconuts. Absolutely coconuts.
Clark thumbs at the fat of your stocking-covered thighs. Gulping. "Can I..?"
"M—hm." You hum, gasping sharply at the fresh rip. He wets his fingers, gently easing them up your inner thighs, groaning low.
"Gosh…you're — warm." He croaks, bringing his digits up to your growing slick. You pulse at his touch, melting into it quickly with the gentle rub parting your folds.
"You don't have to be…so — ah…soft. With it."
Clark grits at your words with a hesitant nod, his palm relaxing, cupping the width of your pussy before his strokes turn much more deliberate. Quicker.
The approval to his ministrations come in the form of the loud, satisfied squelches your cunt makes, coating his fingers as he nudges them into your gummy walls, stretching you out generously. He doesn't stop easing you open for him until you're weakly pawing at his wrists.
He exhales, aligning the blunt tip of his cock by the entrance of your worked cunt. "Okay…okay. Talk to me. If it's too much."
You nod quickly. Resting your forehead against cool plastic. A stuttered whine rumbles out of your throat as he pushes, his own grunts audible as he eases his cock into you, inch by inch.
"A-Ah. Gosh. That's — yeah. G-Gosh." Clark looks to the ceiling, a full-bodied shudder felt even through you as he bottoms out, holding himself there.
"Clark," you plead, voice coming hoarse. His hot, thick cock grew harder in you as you pulsed pathetically, fingers clinging onto the leather of his undone buckle. Pulling at it.
"In a minute, okay? Don't wanna hurt you, I-If I go too fast it'll —"
"Fucking, move."
His jaw clenches at your rebuttal, grabbing your hand, gently pinning them behind your back.
"Fine." He murmurs. Flexing at your wrist, briefly tightening.
The next thrust rocks you into Joseph. Hard. You gasp in surprise and a flicker of pain. The cooled printer you were resting your forehead on is replaced by the warmth of his palm before Clark's thrusts steadily turns rougher. Meaner.
His forehead drops to the back of your neck. Panting into the sensitive skin of your neck. "Fuck." The curse slips out of him, whispered, his hips snapping into you relentlessly. "This is — what I mean — I-I can't…"
Every broken word was punctuated with a frenzied thrust, you start to feel him nudge a spot in you that made your toes curl.
"There, yeah — mhm!" You squeak, head tilted. Clark's palm shifts, casing your eyes. "It's good — so — so so good."
Your praise spurts him on further, "yeah?"
"Yes, god — yes."
Clark nods hastily to himself at your assurance. Dragging his palm down to your front, rubbing at your clit just enough for you to clench faintly around him.
The pleasure is heavy and insistent, tipping you right over the edge as you come. This time, your pussy grip his cock. In hard, pulsating waves. Nothing like the slight flutter from earlier.
"Good golly," he chokes, head tipped up, grinding into you shakily, taking in the feeling of the suction you provide. His palm slips from you, fisted as they rest on thick plastic.
"I'm close, oh gosh I'm close, I'm —" His words are futile, somewhere in his throat, and with a loud, deafening crack, he spills in you, pained gasps bathing the sides of your cheeks.
You don't get to bask in the quiet bliss of your combined orgasms when the contraption beneath you both crackles. Electricity sending sparks flying where Clark's fist had gone through. Layers and layers of thick plastic and shattered glass.
He pulls you back in a panic-induced move, the both of you staring at the remnants.
"Oh…Joseph."
couldn't help but also include my original banner in this fic, which i so adored, but the one on top made by @sparklingsin truly is a show stopper. thank you @tw1sters for this lovely and silly collab. love you freaks loads <3
this tiktok got me thinking about the mess clark would be if you avoided him after he confessed to you.
tags: explicit content, confessions, fwb!reader, text fic themes (700+ wc)
—
that man would be so genuinely pathetic about it all.
he draws a hard line — refusing to push you for an answer to his spur-of-the-moment confession. he thinks giving you time to consider him as a potential partner was the respectful way around it. but what he doesn't account for is how painful the waiting game would be.
you stopped responding to his texts. going out of your way to avoid him both in and out of work, with a level of evasion that would give him a run for his money. if it wasn't so frustrating, he might even be impressed at the segues you successfully orchestrated.
now, clark knew that you hadn't been doing any of those things because you truly hated him.
he knew that wasn't the truth. you two were good friends first.
good friends who often did everything together — like greeting you in your apartment's lobby at 8 am every day, to buy you coffee before you both clocked in for your shift. good friends who stayed at work late to help each other out, no strings attached.
and like the true good friend clark was, he even made sure you came on his fingers the very first time you let him fuck you. and every single time afterwards since then.
so yeah, you were good friends.
it was an easy cop out to avoid clark. for starters, you'd rather not have to commit to the colossal fall out that would surely follow if things had an official label.
and really, you should've known better that a sweetheart like clark would so innocently devote himself to you if you crossed that particular boundary. he fucked you like he loved you. that was the truth in the matter. breaking his heart wasn't an option, so when you left your girls at the bar early that evening, you had your mind set.
you shakily open your text thread with clark as you set foot out of the elevators leading toward your apartment.
26th May 2026
Clark K.: Take all the time you need!! READ
27th May 2026
Clark K.: Morning.
Clark K.: I got you your oat-milk vanilla latte. Are you coming down soon?
You: Sorry. I left earlier. See you at work?
Clark K.: Ok! No worries. 🥸 See you. READ
28th May 2026
Clark K.: I know you said you wanted a little space from our morning walks. I put a gift card from the coffee shop on your desk. In case you fancy a cup on your way to work. READ
3rd June 2026
↳ CLARK K. FORWARDED AN ARTICLE.
HOW TO GIVE SOMEONE SPACE: IT'S TIME TO LET GO.
Clark K.: I'm so sorry. Ignore that. I didn't mean to send it to you. READ
5th June 2026
Clark K.: Are you free this weekend? Let's talk about it. Please.
Today
Clark K.: I miss you so so much. Please let me talk to you. READ
You: I thought about it. Let's give this a shot.
the message sends off with an ominous woosh with the added liquid courage you had in your system. you hadn't expected a response so soon, considering the emotional whiplash you were giving him.
"t-this, am I hallucinating? do you mean it? do you really mean it?"
you certainly hadn't expected clark to spring right up from his slouched position beside your front door. looking like an absolute and utter mess. his glasses were nearly tucked in his breast pocket, hair combed upward in one spot he must've been running his hand through all night while waiting for you.
clark's shadow towers over you, like an anxious spirit, bouncing on his heels, too wary to touch you.
your heels hang loosely by the way you hold them by the straps.
"i—you're here. i didn't—…"
"i know," he cuts in, shaking his head, barely being able to contain the relief coursing through his veins. "too soon, zero buffer time. i was…just here to apologise for that…'i miss you' text. it was awfully pushy. and i felt really silly, especially when i promised you time and space —"
you quickly close the distance, cupping his jaw with both palms. tip-toeing to kiss once. completely sure of yourself. his surprised hum melts the second your lips slot between his. and he sighs, content and deep to curl his arm by your hips, lifting you up in the process.
"had my fill —" a soft, separation, and then you press another kiss, "all the time an'space." you continue, words broken by the urgent need to have him as close as you could.
clark turns you around, with your legs locked around his hips. he presses you flush against your front door, hiking you securely around him. he lets you have the room to speak, dragging the gentle curves of his nose down your jaw. his own bated breath warms your sensitive skin.
you tilt your head, panting in the aftermath of your confession. "i'm sure." you whisper, breathily, his mouth leaving urgent pecks to the column of your throat.
"i want you, clark."
it's all the assurance he needs to christen your furniture with the newly established label, like the good friend boyfriend he could now be.
hi i’m stuck on thinking about rafe encouraging you to slap him during an argument.
rafe has a temper — we all know this. not a day goes by without him getting into an argument with someone and you’re no exception. but what he doesn’t tell you is that sometimes he gets under your skin on purpose.
he believes there’s something so incredibly attractive about the way you get increasingly more fed up with him. so he uses it to his advantage, for fun, of course.
you currently find yourself in that situation. you and rafe have been making snarky remarks towards each other for at least thirty minutes now, and you don’t see it ending anytime soon.
it doesn’t help that you’re no better than he is. if anything, you can be worse — following him into different rooms, jabbing him with a pointed finger, refusing to let him have the last word. meanwhile, he just watches you with that same irritating smirk, like this is all entertainment to him.
except this time it was different. instead of letting you keep following him, he suddenly turns, and you walk right into him — your nose bumping against his chest.
“you’re really that angry,” he stares down at you, the corner of his lip curling in amusement.
“are you being serious right now?” you scoff, crossing your arms. “it’s not just this, that’s the whole point. you keep acting like it’s just this one thing, like i’m blowing it out of proportion, and i’m not. it’s the way you push and push and then stand there like you didn’t do anything, like i’m crazy for reacting.”
your hands fly up as you talk, frustration written all over your face. rafe only watches, hands clasped behind his back, like he’s enjoying every second — because he is.
“god I can’t even stand to look at you right now, you’re so,” you mutter, exhaling sharply while burying your face into your hands.
he doesn’t argue, just slowly bends at the waist so that he’s eye level with you.
He taps his cheek lightly, his tongue pressing against the inside of it ‘attempting’ to hide his growing smile. “c’mon you’ll feel better, promise,”
you squint your eyes at him in disgust before turning on your heels and walking away.
“what?” he calls after you, a grin in his voice. “i’m just trying to help.”
When all else fails, you call for the one person who would always show up for you — the superhero who'd been chasing you.
cw: 18+, smut, pwp, vigilante!reader, banter, mentions of blood and injury, handjobs, x-ray vision/super-hearing mention, fortress of solitude, frenemies, sleepy banter (1.9k wc)
It was looking bleak for you.
All exits blocked, back-up gear burnt to a crisp after a last-minute escape from the wrongly timed explosion. It was as though every humanly possible way to get out of the mess you were in was out of question.
Crap. Where did you put it?
The tiny square-shaped pager tumbles out of your back pocket, clattering onto the floors at your clumsy grab — there wasn't much time left, not with how quickly your vision was fading with the freshly blooming scarlet at your abdomen.
You clutch around your sides, flexing around the sticky warmth pooling beneath your jacket. Breathing felt like sharp stabbing pricks through your lungs. Eventually, the shallow gasps of oxygen just weren't enough. You drop to one knee, then the other — pager just out of reach. Blinking faintly like a beacon, mocking with the distance. With your last few ounces of strength, you drag forward, leaving behind smeared, bloodied hand-prints.
"Come…on…"
The device beeps, flickering back to life after months of disuse.
You weren't sure if you'd hit the right buttons before gravity pulled you right in. Shoulders hitting the ice-cold marbled tiles. You grunt at the impact, eyes growing heavier by the second.
Somewhere between the blaring alarms and your blurring vision, you hear your mother's voice surface in your mind.
Take a break, sweetheart. They're working you to the bone as is.
Maybe you should've listened to her when she'd suggested it.
Go somewhere where the water's blue. You know your father would hate to see you like this.
Take a vacation, out where the sun kissed your skin. If you survived this, you would. But who were you kidding? What awaited you was likely solitary confinement in maximum-security prisons. It was a pipe dream at best.
Right now, you just needed to close your eyes for a while.
The alarms felt like they were miles away, and you finally feel your eyelids flutter shut. But just before everything went dark — you catch it.
Faint, unmistakable red & blue flickers from the pager in the distance.
Bbbzzzzzttttt.
Clark snaps out of his daze. He thought he'd hallucinated the sound at first. The buzz sounded from a frequency that could only mean one thing. His jacket pocket faintly glows a green light — nearly toppling over while trying to grab the device he carried around like a security blanket.
The copy room blurs at the initials that reflect onto him. Within seconds, he leaves nothing but fluttering papers in his wake. He's perched himself on top of the helipad of The Daily Planet, struggling to hop out of his loafers.
This wasn't normal. You had to be in some sort of danger to be calling him.
Clark shuts his eyes, steadying his breath.
Focus, you need to find her.
When he opens them, the city fractures. His vision fades to blue, steel frames of buildings emerge, glass and metal beams that take the place of infrastructure. He sees moving bodies in them, down to their anatomical builds and the circuit wires twisted all over Metropolis, keeping the city alive.
"Shoot…this isn't working."
He takes another deep breath. The air shifts, and he takes it in. Millions of heartbeats, the screech of metal wheels of the subway, down to the hums of billboard signage. He sifts through every noise, combing through them.
Then, Clark isolates a particular noise. A faint buzzing from a smaller electronic device. It had to be you. He's already cutting through the skies, towards the sound that was barely holding on.
—
You woke up in a cold sweat.
Panting, taking in the icy air. Beads coat the sides of your cheeks, forcing strands to stick to your neck uncomfortably. Your eyeline follows downward, fingers tracing over the bandages curving around the swell of your chest, to your abdomen.
The memory of the paralysing pain feels distant, and you weren't sure if it was from the numbing cold or the weirdly professional bandage work done. It's then you feel a hard, cold grip on your bare shoulder.
You flinch hard, jerking against the foreign grip.
"…!"
Instincts take over when you briefly identify what seemed to be a threat. The thing lets out a gasp of surprise at your sudden movements, twisting her arm and pinning her to the ground with a deafening clank.
"P-Please, calm down!" The robot pleads with an uncanny, human female voice, spoken through a modulator. Number twelve was etched to her chest, and she trembles beneath, as though she were sentient. You were still holding her down firmly, but it echoes. The rasp of her voice was distinct.
It stops you cold.
You narrow your eyes, tumbling back on your fours. Accusatively pointing at her, "you…why do you sound like her?"
Twelve tilts her head, "my speech settings were modified for your comfort."
"By who?"
"By Superman," her eyes glow as the mechanics snap her limbs back in place to stand up. You follow suit, in a defensive stance.
"He….modified you to sound like my mother?"
"Superman said you would respond well to a maternal voice as you regained consciousness."
Jesus. Of course, he'd do something like that. With a strained sigh, you slump back, willing yourself not to let yourself be affected by the pretence, not looking at twelve. "Where…is he?"
Twelve turns to walk ahead on her own, and you follow closely behind with a light limp to your steps.
"He has not left your side since your arrival, but only recently entered a low-energy state."
You raise a brow as you peek down the dimly lit, crystalline corridors into what seemed like a laboratory. Following the faint whirring, you step into the vast space. Half-drowned in cold blue lights, mostly from the refraction. Clark was soundly passed out by the tables — surrounded by consoles that were lit up by holographic projections.
On the largest screens, sat some vitals. You squint at the name at the topmost side. Hums of the monitors grow louder, syncing with the mirrored rhythm of your own. Heartbeat levels, oxygen concentrations, neural scans — oh god.
Was this of you?
You glance back at Clark, puzzled. It must've been nearly a week since you were out. And here he was, with his arms folded tight across his chest, with a posture so rigid that it made it certain he'd only reluctantly got shut eye.
"Bit of an overkill…" You mutter, quietly, hovering beside Clark while you rake your gaze through the stacks of folders and handwritten notes on schedules. Most of them part of a rehabilitation plan he'd set in place for you.
You lean down, peeling off the metal frames of his glasses sit crooked on his nose. He wrinkles his nose immediately.
The flare in your abdomen makes itself known when you sit yourself onto the arm of his lounger. You wince, preemptively pressing over the wound, but you remain nonetheless.
Without thinking, you reach out — brushing your forefinger down the crease of his brows. It relaxes on instinct. There were faint wrinkles at the size of his cheek where his cheeks would annoyingly dimple at the sight of you —refusing to fade even in the state of rest.
Then, while he was still half-asleep, he shifted. A pair of bigger hands, heavy with sleep, blindly feels around your thighs, sliding up your hips. Before you could even react, he tugs you flush onto his lap.
A slight groan leaves you at the exertion as you steady yourself onto his thighs. The motion sends a frenzy through your readings. Spiking with the irregularity of your heartbeat and pain indicators.
The sound stirs him awake by instinct. Clark jerks upright, blinking blearily. It was a sound he'd essentially pavolved himself in responding to while you were still recuperating from your injuries.
But you were on his lap. He sighs, slumping back.
"You need t'stop." He murmurs quietly, rubbing his palms lazilly dragging down your sides, settling at your hips.
"Stop what?"
You frown in confusion when he relaxes his hold around you, smiling dorkishly. pointing at you before it drops on your lap.
He doesn't answer right away, rolling his shoulders back, eyes half-lidded with a dorky smile curling at the corner of his lips. "Appearin'…" You raise a brow at the finger wagging at you, "… n'…touchin' me in…m'dreams…"
"Uhuh…and what exactly am I doing in these dreams of yours?"
"Mmmmm…" His lashes flutter when he blinks stubbornly, shaking his head with a crooked and boyish grin, "can't say."
"Can't or won't?" You humour, knuckles brushing his curly locks away from his forehead.
His fingers flexes around your wrist, pulling it downs tinge, murmuring low into them.
"..'f I tell ya…dreams gonna end."
Your other palm slides lazily down his chest, rested where it was the loudest.
"Was I touching you here?"
He hums, the grip he had around your wrist turning to a placeholder. Clark shakes his head, mumbling quiet lower.
You follow the notion, tracing your fingers down to rest on his abdomen, "here?"
Clark looks up at you, expression turning a little more serious when he tightens his hold, guiding your palms until they rest on his warm bulge.
"Then what?" You whisper, words brushing past his prickly jaw.
"Then…it ends. An' I wake up."
You snort at the pouty tone he takes. Biting down on your lower lips, your fingers flex — a soft grunt leaves him when you squeeze his bulge.
"Awake now?"
Clark shifts, "…I…am." He follows up, unsure if the vision of you before him was still a dream. But you'd felt far too warm for it to still be.
He takes your name, hesitantly, and you hum. Grinding the heel of your palm onto his bulge, slowly responsive.
"You're awake. Gosh, you're awake," his voice is barely above a croak, panting through the steady stimulation.
"H-How long?"
"A while." You finally say, slipping your palm beneath his waistband.
Clark groans audibly at the admittedly dry rub of his cock. But it quickly twitches to life with your strokes.
"I…you were…out for days —"
"Shh…" You lean in, lifting his hands away from where it was tightly gripped around the armrest, letting it rest on the curve of your chest.
"Later," you urge, coaxing him to squeeze the softness beneath. Clark relents nearly instantly, his larger palm spanning the entirety of your breasts, kneading and squeezing the fat there.
His moans then louder, breathier with every stroke.
"I-I'm sorry, I don't think…I'm gonna…last…"
Clark doesn't complete his words, slumping back to grope your tits with both his palms. The fabric shifts at his motions — wrinkling to his touch.
Your softer moans mirror his as you're soon able to drag the wetness of his pre-cum. You're grinding on his thigh as well as you could, taking in the little friction.
You knew he was close the second he began to buck his hips into you, chasing the tightness of your fists.
"It's okay," you promise, pressing a peck at his pulse. Clark tenses without warning, and you feel a warm, thick liquid bubble over your knuckles in deep spurts.
He grunts low in your ears through it, taking deep inhales of you. You tilt your head to his when he nudges you to face him.
"This…really isn't a dream…is it?"
You press another kiss at the corner of his lips, and he parts them with a shaky breath, shutting his eyes to welcome yours before you part from him.
Superman's sex-tape was about to get leaked and...you're featured?
cw: 18+, mild smut, recorded interview, angry!clark, reporter!reader, little homage to Clark confronting Lex for Krypto, established relationship, exhibitionism, their indecency is caught on surveillance (1.9k wc)
Wood splinters explode into shrapnels as Clark's body barrels through it. The soft-spoken assistant barely manages to stifle a gasp when he shoulders past her at a speed that has papers and dust plumes following.
There's no stopping Clark as he stomps over to the man behind the desk, boots crunching on the shattered wood.
Luthor doesn't even flinch. Taking a casual sip from his mug with an infuriating calmness. "It's fine, Heather." He assures, "Superman, we finally meet. Would you like coffee..?"
Clark's response doesn't come with a word, not at first. A sharp inhale followed, "where's the tape," he growls low, voice rasped.
"The tape?" Luthor echoes, almost innocently. unfazed with a calmness that was just serving to rile Clark up more.
"The tape, Luthor," Clark snaps, "the tape you sent!"
Luthor flicks his gaze over to Eva, who was standing there all shaky, silently gesturing for her to get this on camera. Superman's crash-out was something the masses deserved to see.
Clark's teeming with barely restrained anger. And with one fell swoop, he whips the large oak table that separated him and Luthor to the other side of the room. The sheer sound of thundered, windows cracking where it careened into.
"Where's the tape?"
He repeats, it echoes around the room, reverberating through every crevice of the walls. Molecules in the air vibrating in the wake of his pure unadulterated anger.
Luthor rises slowly, "I have no clue…" He begins smoothly with Clark tracking his movements like a waiting predator. "…What you're talking about."
Clark's jaw tensed as his chest heaved. Looking away as though to compose himself with the sight of the wreckage he caused. He shakes his head slowly, voice a tad more controlled.
"She has nothing to do with this, Luthor. It's between you and me. Hand over the goddamn tape."
Luthor brings his coffee mug to his lips, voice muffled by the rim.
"I don't know what tape you're talking about," he pauses, letting his words hang, then continues, "Superman's Sex-Tape."
Clark's gaze snaps up, blue eyes twitching, "what did you say….?" It comes out low, through gritted teeth.
Suffice to say, his anger had gotten him nowhere.
No leverage, or even a shred of indication if Lex had actually planned to weaponize such an intimate tape of himself. His departure from LuthorCorp was riddled with smug denials and being escorted out of the building by Luthor's security detail.
He lands on his balcony with a dull thud. Glass doors rattling as he pushes them open with force. Aside from Bruce helping him with tracing the source, there were no other leads or ways he could get Luthor to stop.
The irony wasn't lost on him — a man as powerful as Superman being blackmailed. By a vengeful little man, at that.
He doesn't bother with turning the lights on. Except it already was. Clark freezes, he didn't recall leaving it on before he left.
"About time."
You speak up from where you were leaned up against his kitchen counters. Half-lit warmly by the sole sconce there. It was a crude reflection of his own uninvited presence at your place a few days back.
"I — …what are you doing here?" He begins, a little relieved and mortified to have to face you of all people now.
"You haven't been answering my texts," you shrugged, stepping out into the darkness where he remained frozen. "Unless it has something to do with the tape you were yelling at Lex Luthor for."
Clark gulps. Watching you circle him until he's forced to slump into his couch.
"Went pretty viral. Twelve million views and counting, titled Superman Goes Apeshit. #supernuts."
He groans. Thumbing at his temples at that stupid hashtag that'd been beginning to bug him. "I'm sorry!" Clark huffs defeated, looking up at you.
"I'll figure something out," he assures, holding over your hand like he was seconds away from proposing to you over this mishap. "I —"
"Oh Christ." You grumbled, tearing your hand away from him. His expression was giving him away. Heck, you hadn't even been dating him, yet, you were certain he was willing to pull this out of chivalry. Or responsibility.
You sit down next to him on the couch, ignoring all semblance of personal space as you reach to grab the remote. Clark looks at you confused as you cross your legs, getting all comfortable.
His attention is redirected to the television, where a grainy, security cam styled recording begins to play. It only takes Clark mere seconds to recognise the red cap & gigantic ‘S’ plastered on it.
“Y-You, why on earth are you showing me this? I-It’s —“
“Us,” you deadpan with a sigh. Flickers of Superman folding you into half, securing your legs around his hips. The Clark next to you hiccups, covering his face in horror.
But letting him peek through his fingers to see his own hips snap into you like some starved dog. “O-Oh my gosh. Gosh no. Have I always…looked like that?”
You snap your fingers in his face, “now’s not the time, Clark! And yes. You do.”
He snaps his head to you with that pouty look you’d grown to tolerate. You rewind the clip, and Clark involuntarily looks at his peripherals.
“W-Why…”
“Clark. I’ve replayed this about fifty times now. Mostly to critique, but look.”
“I don’t wanna,” he counters.
You grumble and grab his jaw, forcing him to study the offending sight. “I’ve scrubbed through this, and not once was my face even visible.”
The frame pauses, and you gesture at the screen where it’d just been Clark’s broad back propping you up against the alley walls.
“You’re blocking me entirely. From start to end.”
Clark drags his hand down his face before letting out an exasperated sigh. “That isn’t…the point.”
“Let me run the story.”
“What?” He croaks, turning to you, voice all high and boyish.
“Superman’s supposed sex tape. We came down from The Planet in this, so they’re going to assume it was a reporter he’s with. So let’s spin it. Before Luthor does.”
Clark stares at you, shaking his head, “t-that’s insane…”
“Maybe. But so was fucking out in the back alley of our workplace.”
“Y-You insisted!”
You press a finger into Clark’s lips to shush him.
“We both know he’s going to run a smear campaign.”
Clark nods slightly in agreement, but you can tell he’s still hesitant.
“I get this story out, we can get ownership rights over the clip, and an interview from you. It’ll work. Trust me.”
He pulls your hand away from his face, pulling you to seat yourself onto his lap. Clark’s holding both your hands to his chest.
“You’re a nightmare.”
That seems to make you grin.
“Congrats, Superman, you’re about to get your sex-tape leaked.” He lets out a whiny groan when you remind him, feeling you shift on his lap to grab a recorder you had hidden underneath the cushions.
“You…knew I’d agree to it?” He breathes out confused.
You shrug at his words with a cheeky grin, “I have a way of getting you to do stuff.” You throw a subtle glance towards the footage and back at him with a knowing look.
“Uhuh. Look where that got us.” He mumbles, relaxing into the headrest as the beep of the recorder catches his attention. Clark stiffens, jolting you in the process.
“Superman.”
He grunts. Repeating your name in that polite Miss-format he defaults to in interviews.
“There seems to be footage of a man in a Superman get-up, getting it on with someone in the alley of Metropolis’ most renowned paper."
“It seems so. I didn’t think that was a hot thing for kids these days.”
[Your snort is picked up on the audio, and you're mouthing a ‘good one’ to him.]
Clark offers an easy smile up at you, leaning in to peck your sternum.
[Shift of fabric is heard.]
“Focus!” You chide, and he leans back with his palm raised. Adjusting you higher on his lap.
“People are curious if that’s you in this footage. Can you attest to that?”
“I think….we’ve truly stooped low if we’re starting to advertise the personal lives of regular people. Even if it is Superman.”
“You aren’t answering the question. Are you saying this isn’t you?”
“All I’m saying...” He hums, hiking you closer to him with a rough tug. “Is that ridiculous a story is being run.”
“Do you realise it’s a crime to be having sex out in public?”
[Clark sighs loudly.]
“I’m not admitting to a single thing. Also. We aren’t even sure if they are. They could be hugging. Who’s to say.”
“Obviously you’re being evasive on purpose. So. Let me ask you this.”
Clark rolls his shoulders with a sigh. Looking up at you.
“Can you admit to the other person in this footage, being me, your girlfriend?”
[His breath stutters, and he blinks up at you, mouth agape.]
“…W…What?”
You bite down on your lips, sitting the recorder to the side as you put in on pause. Cupping Clark’s jaw as you lean in to kiss him. He’s quick to return it, groaning into your mouth. Pressing you chest to chest with him, guiding your arms to wrap around his neck.
“A-Are you sure?” He mutters softly into your lips, brushing your hair back with his knuckles.
“Yeah.” You kiss down his pulse, and he melts into you.
"I'm sure."
—
“W-Wait. I don’t think it’s a good idea to be…”
“Can it, Clark.” You gasp urgently into Clark’s lips, tugging him down to kiss him over and over, carding your fingers through the back of his curls.
This wasn’t like you either. Composed, level-headed would’ve what you’d called yourself, but you weren’t that person right now.
Not when you’d seen your boyfriend get caught in an explosion you were sure he would’ve gotten injured or been dead in. The first person he’d come to was you. It didn’t matter you still had an hour left, you needed him. Needed to feel that he was alive.
Clark hoists you up with ease to press you against the brick walls, his cape fluttering to have you as hidden as possible to any possible intruders.
“That worried f’me?” He coos, rubbing the back of your head, letting your lips drag down his jaw.
“Hurry. Please,” you whine, rubbing over the quickly hardening indent over his super-suit.
He nods quickly, shucking himself free just for his cock to slap against his abdomen. “O-Okay. Okay. You need to keep your voice down.” He pressed, ruching your skirt up as quickly as he could’ve.
“I need to — “
“Doesn’t matter!”
Clark grunts, head flushed to rest on your chest. “I-It’s gonna hurt, okay? I-I’m sorry.” He mutters, bullying his cock into your pussy, drinking in the pained whimpers. The sting of him was overwhelming. But it didn’t matter.
He was here.
—
“Geez. What on earth are you still watching that for?”
Clark catches you staring at the TV, replaying the footage from earlier when you reach for the remote underneath him. Peeling his sweaty body off you for a second, taking a few steps to fetch you some water from his kitchen. Walking over with his trousers hung low in his bare torso.
“Just…it’s kinda hot. Maybe we should.”
“You’re not seriously implying we make a tape.”
You shrug, taking the bottle from him. Eyeing him as you took a sip.
Either way, you’d always been good at getting Clark to agree with what you wanted.
Clark's not the only Kryptonian to have survived other than his Kara — and you're hell-bent on making him realise that his role on earth was still unfulfilled.
He thought he'd imagined it at first. Hours and hours of paperwork, for five minutes of an interview with Mr Moneybags — Clark was sure he was beginning to hear things.
Kent.
The sound emits from a synthetic neural ruby that was carved with nth-metal on his finger. A bridge between him and an old friend.
Clark snaps his palm over his left hand, stifling the static noises. He shoots upright, muttering apologies as he weaves past his colleagues to somewhere quieter.
"B-Bruce?"
He looks around to survey his surroundings, slowly lifting his palm off the apparent mic in his ring.
"Since when was there a mic embedded into this?"
Since always. It's a communication device. How did you think that worked?
"Does…that mean you could hear…stuff on my end?"
When I want to.
Clark looks up with his eyes shut.
For the sake of his own sanity, he was going to pretend that Bruce hadn't heard a single thing through a ring Clark kept on through...everything.
Anyways. I need a favour.
"Should I come by the estate?"
Not necessary. Have a look.
He jolts when blue emits from his ring, a staticky hologram forming. Clark tilts his head at what seemed to be a map, with a moving red dot in downtown Metropolis.
"This is…?"
She escaped from custody this morning. If I'm right, she's headed back to Metropolis.
"Escaped…custody? Shouldn't law enforcement be handling this?"
Not in their custody, mine.
"Bruce…I'm not sure if I should be getting involved."
It's her.
"Wuh-huh?"
"W-Why wouldn't you lead with that?! She's —"
Figured you'd be the best person to bring her back to me. Good luck.
Trailing the red dot had led Clark directly to the rooftop of a high-rise. A lavish apartment penthouse you'd acquired from yourself through not-so-justified means.
When he'd landed, you were already there, seated by the ledges, ankles crossed over one another as you looked over your shoulders with a smile.
"Kal."
His name — being called his real name, didn't come as a comfort. Not when it was from you.
"Missed me?"
A sigh rips through him, and he approaches your silhouette with his hands perched on his hips, "you broke out of containment. Again."
Clark tenses when your hips twist around to face him. Your palm pressed onto the edge. "Containment. That's such a sad word for gods like us, don't you think?"
"We aren't gods," he points out defensively.
"And take your hands off your hips, makes you look like a geek."
Clark grunted, finger turning to a fist as it fell to his sides. "You're going back. End of discussion."
"Oh, Kal…" you murmur all soft, standing up slowly, looking up at him with a tender gaze. "Still pretending to be Clark Kent. Slave to humanity's capitalistic ideals. Why do you want to be human that badly?"
His jaw tenses, gaze tracking you as you approach him. "You don't get it."
You trace your fingers down his chest, grazing the emblem. "The last son of Krypton. A perfect…specimen." Clark's muscles flex where you touch them, and there's a glint in your eyes he'd grown far too familiar with.
Clark catches your wrist before he finds himself relapsing in bad habits. "Don't."
"Let me give you what you need," you press, walking him backwards, closer to the ledge. A world rebuilt, one where you don't need to pretend holding punches."
The wind brushes his hair back, and he takes your name in warning, gaze flicking to the drop behind.
"We can start something bigger than us. All you have to do is give me it." Clark flinched when you held his wrists to your belly, twitching at the possibility.
"Ruling isn't rebuilding." He rasps, hands curling around your shoulders to attempt to stop you. But it's far too late.
"Wait — " The sound comes out muffled when your lips crash into his. Your palms snake down the hard lines of his shoulders — tumbling backwards together off the ledge.
A rush of wind sends your adrenaline at an all-time high, paired with the reverberation of his hum into your mouth. His arm curled at your hips before you're both steadily rising back up, the fall turning to flight.
He should've pulled away.
But he leans into the graze of your knuckles against his pulse. Nosing at his jaw until he lets you kiss him again. It turns messy and breathless quickly.
Laughably, Clark angles you both higher into the clouds — flying faster toward his apartment. You pull away from his lips to murmur at his jaw with a smirk.
"Impatient."
Clark knew better than everyone else that going down a slippery slope would only lead you one place: at the bottom.
And in his case, back in the sheets.
Fucking you into his mattress.
A trail of clothes followed a path from his balcony, down the halls and into his bedroom. Cracked concrete from where he'd grabbed onto it to shimmy out of his impossibly tight suit. Clark-shaped dents in the wall from where you'd slammed him back into it to kiss him.
He swore you'd be the last person he ever wanted in this particular arrangement. Because god forbid he accidentally knocked you up, he'd inadvertently be starting the little dynasty his birth parents wanted for him — what you wanted, too.
Clark wasn't helping his case when he gave in to this. It's hard to feel any semblance of moral sanctity when you'd flicked the condom out of his hands.
He all but growled as he had you pinned beneath you, pressing hasty kisses down your neck. What was even harder was for his mind to cancel out the sweet moans you were giving him. The words were lingering in his head repeatedly.
"G-God, Kal. Kal!"
It steps off something innately primal in him, an instinct ingrained in his DNA. He growled low, easing the tip of cock into you.
You'd always been able to take him in his entirety — sucking in every inch of his length deeper into you. Clark's forearms rested next to your face as he slumped over you. Panting deeply and heavily.
"Feels good, doesn't it?"
Clark shakes his head, trying to ignore the way you'd goaded him, right into his ears. Refusing to answer you.
"Feels good to fuck ne raw like you were meant to."
"E-Enough," he croaks, latching his lips at your jaw, steadily snapping his hips into you, chasing the deepest part of you that he was hitting relentlessly.
Your thighs hooked around his legs, encouraging him to roll his hips deeper into you. He nearly buckles at the sheer strength that mirrors his, forcing him to grind deep into you. "Kal," you whine out, clawing at his shoulders.
"What?" He's agitated, but he's desperate. To give you what you wanted, regardless of what he wanted.
"Cum in me —"
He grunts, shaking his head, his thrusts not slowing.
"P-Please. Please Kal. I need it. I-In me." Your hands grab his free hand, pressing you at the dent shaped like his cock, wedged deep into you.
Clark's head slumps, shakily, focused on that one feeling that was making his balls draw right, wanting nothing more than to empty himself into you. Especially with the way you were looking at him with such need.
David preferred not to divulge any highly personal information about himself to the women he saw casually. That was his first rule.
His job, for example, most wrinkled their noses at the idea of him being a cop. So admitting to being a narc cop was just him begging for another night with his fist.
Sure, some found the law enforcement types enticing. Competency and authority were a pretty effective aphrodisiac. But that wasn't why he had to keep it on the down low.
Amongst other things that fulfilled his sexual appetite, David's preference in hook-up spots was typically in Dive Bars or invite-only Speakeasies, ones only the people in the know were privy to.
The clientele there was colourful—a place where you just didn't question the criminal records of the people around.
It wasn't a coincidence that this was where he'd scored the most. Sexually speaking. David had a thing for the sort of women he knew had the potential to ruin him. He never quite stuck around long enough for it to get to that point.
You, however, were different.
One night with you was enough for David to break Rule Number 2 — never sleep with the same girl twice.
The sex was good. But it was what came before that had him gravitating towards you at the corner booths like a moth to a flame.
You made him laugh. He liked that. He liked being around someone who made him feel like a bashful teenager, and fucking someone who made him feel like a man.
You were vocal. Praising him when he did good — when you felt good. Maybe it was a complex he didn't know he had. But it made him so painfully hard he just couldn't help but fuck you dumb until you slumped boneless into the sheets.
Rule Number 3 was promptly broken after that — no taking anyone home.
See, now this was also a logistical concern. David, like most other men, stored firearms in his home. Someday, he'd bring home files from the precinct that definitely weren't meant to leave the archive, and continue work at home.
So keeping it clean and trouble-free by taking his dates to a decent motel sufficed.
It took one guerilla rainstorm for the two of you to take shelter in his apartment. Giggling and tumbling into each other's arms as he led you up the circular stairwell.
"Is this when you tell me that you're roomies with a college kid?"
David shakes his head at your tease, leading you with a firm hold into the second apartment of three on the fourth floor.
"Yeah. And he likes to watch."
You're grumbling into his lips at his creepy joke when he pivots you to rest your back against his door. Pecking you over and over until the lock clicks open. His hands are damp, rubbing over your rain-slick top. Peeling it off your body.
Heavy wet thuds from your combined articles of clothing led you to the bathroom.
"Oh — shoot. Wait. Do you have a washer and dryer? I have somewhere to be in the morning."
He was half paying attention to you, far too busy trying to get your towel off.
The breaking of Rule Number 4 presented itself subtly.
"S'alright. Leave it. Borrow mine tomorrow, I'll drop them off on the weekends."
Making future plans. Rookie move.
"As much as I'd love to roam around in a hoodie and wrangler jeans…" You bring his wrist closer to your face. Kissing his open palms.
"I still care what people think of me."
"Ouch."
David snorts at your unprovoked dig at him, leaning down to press a peck on the apple of your cheeks.
"Alright, princess," he mutters teasingly. It sends a chill down your spine nonetheless. "I'll throw them in the wash. Stay there."
He's already jogging backwards out of the room, shooting you a loose point before stumbling lower to grab at your clothes.
Princess.
An unwitting smile curls up your lips as you stand up. Looking around with curiosity at his living space. He didn't quite have an allocated bedroom. Somehow, a darker, open-space concept suited him.
Brick-work details and the epitome of a bachelor pad. It was cute, you thought. Something silver catches the corner of your eye, peeking out of the laundry basket.
You lean down to examine it, and the rattle of chains has you holding your breath as you see the item in its entirety.
Oh, wow.
By the time David returned, he had a gleeful look on his face, unfurling what was held tightly in his palms — a long connected trail of condom foils.
You shake your head at the absurdity. Leaning back to rest on a palm planted behind, gesturing at him in a come-hither motion with another.
"C'mere." You coo, and David pounces.
The bed whines loudly beneath your combined weights as you burst out into giggles. His scruff tickling your neck while he manhandled you to the head of his bed.
"W-Wait!" You try, but he growls in refusal, groping wherever he could after having flicked off the towel on your body.
"Gotta fuck you. M'not waiting."
You bite down on your lips in thought, tipping your head enough for him to kiss your pulse.
It's when he least expects it.
David hears a click, followed by a cold, circular metal that tightened around his wrist like a vice.
"Whoa — ow. What the?" He lifts his head, perplexed, and over his shoulders, where you'd soon fasten his own handcuffs on him.
David looks at you, expression half twisted in confusion and amusement. "Jesus. Where did you get these?"
You bit down on your lips, dragging your hands down his body to the tuft of hair littered across his chest and to the trimmed coarseness beneath.
"You didn't tell me that you were into stuff like this," David grunts when you tug at the chains, forcing him to stiffen up against the headboard.
"Full of surprises, aren't you?"
"Not really," you murmur. Taking full leverage of the fact that he wasn't quite in control anymore. Dragging your fingers over the twitching bulge beneath his boxers. "I'd say between the two of us, you're the one keeping secrets."
David's well distracted, the way you were idly rubbing over his erection. Doing nothing more than to lift his hips, chasing every friction you were offering.
"What do you wanna know?"
You drag your lips over his pulse, nipping at his jaw, tugging at the cuffs. "How many?"
"Mm. Put that 'round lots of women. Men, too." He shrugged with nonchalance.
That seems to have you draw back, blinking incredulously. David whined when you squeezed around his bulge.
"Liar."
The distinct sound of him jerking against his restraints is heard, he grunts when you're insistent on just teasing him.
You gasp sharply when you feel his free hand tugging around your hips, pulling you underneath him. Your gaze flicks to the cuffs that dangled free, only snugly secured to his right hand.
"I'm a cop, baby." The sharp sound clicks over your left hand. Joining the two of you together as he guides your combined hands to slide beneath his boxers.
You shudder at the feel of his fingers interlocked over yours, dragging them to stroke his length. A heat creeps up your cheeks when he easily parts your thighs, pumping himself steadily.
"Sh-Shit. Squeeze a little harder — mhm…" He grunts with effort when your fingers tighten around him.
"Yeah, yeah. God, jus' like that."
His shoulder tightens as he shimmies out of his boxers, shuddering each time the cold metal grazed his length at a biting intensity.
You feel his fingers loosen over yours, letting you take the reins as they cupped over your wrists. Letting you guide the movements.
Your eyes glint at the way his pre leaks over your fingers, and you drag them, coating your palms to wet his cock further.
"Oh I really didn't think I'd be into this," he croaks, words slurring as his eyes fluttered shut involuntarily. The threat of his orgasm loomed closer when his balls began to grow tight.
"Fuck, timeout —"
You frown when he forces your grip off him, intertwining your fingers together, wet with his pre, pressing them next to your face on the mattress.
"David!" You protest, but he tuts, biting down on the foil to roll it down his length.
"M'gonna cum in her baby. Nowhere else." He murmurs through a lopsided grin. Letting his cock bob flush over your abdomen. Angling just how deep he'd be in you in a minute.
"Y-Yeah? She wants you." You whisper, and he groans at your words.
You shiver at the way his cock dragged down your mound and to your clit. Dragging your slick up and down your folds.
"Mhn — stop…teasing." You bit out.
David coos mockingly, "doesn't feel so good now, does it?"
He was only fucking the tip of his cock into you. But the stretch of him was far too good, and it had you pulsing with the crumbs he provided.
"Easy does it…" David loosens his hold, palms curl around your wrist where they were handcuffed together. You jolt against the metal when he pushes further into you until he bottoms out with a grunt.
Giving you no time to get used to the stretch, as he steadily snaps his hips into you.
"O-Oh—…f—fuck. S'so good. Sososo good!" You whine, "harder — p-please."
David grunted into your ears, squeezing his ass at every thrust in an effort not to just cum into you right there and then. "Greedy…greedy girl."
You squirm, fingers hitting a crinkle. Gaze lazily looking over at the roll of condoms that rested there.
He follows your sight and grins, whispering low onto your skin. "Count how many are there." He murmurs raspy.
You shake your head, but relent when he threatens to stop his thrusts. You turn back. "…T-Twelve…"
"Mhm…" David forcibly tugs your jaw to look at him. "That's how many times I'm gonna fuck you, baby. We've got all day."
Your cunt spasms by instinct, blinking up at him with an impending fear lurking in your chest.
"Y…You're kidding."
Something told you he was going to keep to his words.
The blatant failures of his own set rules came down on David harder than he'd anticipated in his post-nut clarities.
Though if he was being technical, it was the result of thirteen clarities. He swiped at his nose as he looks over his shoulder to the sleeping figure, face nuzzled in his sheets.
He supposes breaking Rule Number Five wasn't something he could help.
Never fall in love.
David was tucking away at the stray stand of hair that fell onto your face when a glimmer tears him out of his daze, to his phone, lighting at his dresser.
"Yeah. What's up." He says low, looking back to let you sleep in a little longer.
"David. I've been trying to reach you. Jesus. Check your messages. Think we found a way in, Maroni's kid. She might be useful in taking him down."
"She's not gonna talk against her own dad."
"So we go another route. I don't know. Flirt her up."
"What you're describing is just 21 Jump Street, man."
"Oh. Whatever. Just check your phone. See you tomorrow."
David sighs with a shake of his head, wiping down a scoff of disbelief. Maroni was a high-time dealer they'd been after in the BPD. He supposed it wouldn't be too out of left field to consider.
He tilts his head as he reads the text chain, leading down to a photograph of Maroni's daughter.
His blood runs cold as the image loads in on itself. It was probably a punishment from the gods of FWB for breaking their rules.
That the woman supposedly — the only daughter of a drug syndicate he was after, was lying in his bed right now.
David eyes the last message his partner, Scott, sent over.
[12:20am]
Scott: Think about it.
Scott: Looks like ur type.
He stared at his phone blankly. Back at you and facepalms. Yeah…sure was.
cw: 18+, smut, poison ivy!reader, she attempts to use her pheromones/toxins to seduce clark, dubcon, off canon, flirting, sexual tension, clark is 'restrained' by ivy's vines, antagonist/villain!reader, handjob, switch!clark, power play, m!receiving oral (you give him very VERY sloppy head i'm talking ball action) (3k wc)
Metropolis had its way of swallowing people whole.
But you were nothing if not adaptable. Gotham had grown far too loud and far too troublesome to continue your little operation — no thanks to a little bat getting in your way. So you'd reinvented yourself entirely, a new city, a new name, a whole new identity.
A PhD in Behavioural Psychology. It was a perfect cover to sell yourself as an 'advice' column expert.
Your pitch to Perry White had been laughably simple: Love sells. The Planet itself already had exposés on corruption, political scandals, and international affairs. What it lacked? Was a wide-eyed girlish touch — someone to entertain the restless hearts of lonely Metropolitans. Perry was hesitant, but the way the circulation instantaneously skyrocketed the ratings of the paper after your first column had him handing you your own designated section.
Barely three weeks in, people were already quoting Dear Ivy all around the city.
Clark Kent often passed by your desk after you'd moved in next to him, noticing the way you had your own little set-up of rotating flora. One week, it was Ghost Orchids, something known to never be able to cultivate outside its natural habitats. The next, Jade Vines — turquoise blooms glowing faint under fluorescent lights.
You'd alternate between those and carnivorous plants, Clark would often spend late hours nervously side-eyeing the scary-looking creatures. But you? You were all sunshine in contrast. Laughing with the interns, listening intently to the editors when they gave you feedback. Always with a sweet word and a smile to match.
His first real conversation with you was…something.
You were staring directly at him while he was spinning his pen absentmindedly, tucking it at the top of his lips in a dorky pout — it clatters to the table when he sees a flash of red manicured nails on his keyboard. He looks up at you, and you're eyeing him with a curious gaze.
He clears his throat forcefully, and when you casually lean up against his desk, he zeros in on the fat of your thighs pressed onto the wood. Your voice snaps his eyes back to you.
"You know, Clark…" you begin, tilting your head as though you were studying him, "you should write to my column. I could fix you up real nice. You're not too bad looking if you'd just…" your fingers lift, brushing over the edge of his glasses. " — take these off."
Before you could tug them off, Clark catches your wrists. He didn't squeeze, but it was enough to startle you. He held you steady, thumb brushing over the pulse on your wrist.
"Uh…I'm good," he says, softer, a little amused at your forwardness.
You only smile wider. Like you'd just found someone far more interesting than a candidate for your column.
Clark adjusts his glasses awkwardly, rubbing at the base of his jaw. "I'm not sure anyone would find…the Kansas brand charming."
"Well, you know where to find me if you change your mind."
He watches you push off his table. Catching himself staring at the sway of your hips as you walked back to your cubicle.
On the surface, you seemed…well…harmless. But his instincts, one that was honed by years of paying attention to physical cues and people's heartbeats, told him there was something about you that just didn't add up.
Though like everyone else, he was sold on the all-sweet front you offered.
The Daily Planet never really slept.
Especially not the archive library. Tucked beneath the buzzing bullpen was Clark's sanctuary. Dust-coated books and files with the faint hums from the aged conditioning vent.
He perused through the tall shelves, footsteps muffled on the carpeted floors. He'd been working late that night, like any other day, looking for the Planet's past investigation into LexCorp in the restricted section.
Someone else was already there.
A smaller figure stood at the far left cabinet, red hair catching in the dim light. You looked up at him, briefly startled, and then you smiled sweetly.
"Clark," you greet, shutting the files with a definitive thud. "Didn't expect anyone to be down here at this hour. Working late?"
He pauses, raking his gaze over the classified files you held. "Yeah...me neither. I didn't see your name card access in the security logs."
You seemed unnerved. Twisting heel to clutch the folder tighter.
"Looking into the recent LexCorp files?"
You laugh, all airy and practised. Tucking a strand of hair behind your ears. "Oh! You know, curiosity. Sometimes the best advice comes from understanding all these corporate power plays."
Clark tilts his head all innocent, "Luthor's biotech division, huh? I looked into that myself. It was clean. No impropriety."
"The biogenetic companies had always been his cover. The real work was the illegal experiments conducted behind the scenes."
He looks at you, quiet for a bit. "I didn't put that information in our database yet."
For the first time since meeting you, your smile falters. Instead of leaving, you turn towards the door, heel clicking it shut.
The air in the room shifts.
There's a low humming in the vents, breathing like it's alive. Clark's expression turns a tinge serious. Not noticing the green twines from the grates behind him — curling along the shelves and slithering down near his feet. Boxing him all around, like a cage of green that threatened to hold him tight if he stepped out of line.
"I'm not here to hurt anyone, Clark," you say, with a lilt to your voice. "I like this job. People adore me, and I help them. Why ruin a good thing? Right?"
He steps closer to you, unfazed. "With all due respect, I don't think you're here to help. You're…hiding something."
Your lips curl into a smile, tipping your head up to look at him. "I get the feeling that you, of all people, understand secrets."
Clark stiffens where he stands, jaw clicking. "Not like that." His head nods to the files you held. "And I can't let lies and deception take root here."
Your eyes glint at the choice of his words, "oh you have no idea where my roots go." Clark doesn't back down, lips pressed tense, clearly not willing to let this go.
"If this is how you wanna do it…" you mutter, stepping closer to him. From your palms, you blow a shimmer of iridescent pink dust that blossoms into the air, sparkling as it floats into his face. The pheromones settle like perfume into his skin, sweet and intoxicating.
Clark coughs, waving the cloud of glitter away. His body now reacts against his will — vision softening, pupils dilating visibly. He shakes his head as heat flushes through his veins. The edge of the desk digs into his palms as he steadies himself.
"What was — what did you do?" He manages, his pulse ticking by the second.
You closed the distance, dragging your finger down his tie to undo the knot. Lips dangerously close to his jaw.
"Just a little something to soothe your nerves."
Clark blinks hazily at you. His chest tensing as you pop the buttons open on his shirt. Softer palms sliding beneath the fabric, grazing over his nipples.
It was working. He was visibly getting relaxed, pheromones numbing his mind in the best ways possible. His breath hitches at the way you rubbed him, not protesting when you drag your nails down to his bulge, guiding his limp cock out of his pants.
"Impressive…" You murmur, earning a sheepish look from him. He tears his gaze away from you. Eyes fluttering shut tightly when your palms skirt over his bare length.
Clark holds back a grunt, jaw tensing with effort — refusing to let a single noise slip. It's evident in the way his hips were bucking into your palms that he was starting to feel really good.
Your smile turns triumphant, free hand sliding up his jaw. It was starting to turn you on, the way your palm looked dwarfed just holding his face. You trace your fingers over his warm cheeks, tilting them to you. He's tensing under your touch.
"Such a big guy…if you wanted, you could stop this, you know."
Clark looks to you, lips twitching, grabbing your wrist when you attempt to pull away. He holds you there, keeping you on his cock. "I…I don't want to." He grits, breathing slowly. You grin, timing your strokes to his breathing.
"Ugh…" You peer up at him through your lashes when a gravelly moan finally breaks free. It sends chills down your spine, and the desire for more takes you. Your tongue catches your lower lip, letting him control the pace of your wrist.
You tighten your grip around his cock, dragging his pre-cum down his shaft. The slippery-ness provides a much smoother stroke. Clark bucks into your hands, panting harder into your ears.
Allowing him the pleasure of a tighter hold, you begin to pump his cock rougher, lips grazing his cheekbone.
"Tighter…please." He chokes through his words, turning to nose at the side of your head, taking in your sickly sweet scent.
Clark shakes his head, craning his neck away from you. Something was dizzying about the dry, vetiver scent your skin was emitting. Something prickly, heady and floral.
Then — he inhales sharply. His body burning the hazy feeling out of his system entirely. He eventually manages to compose his breathing, standing up straighter.
You freeze, looking up at him as he holds your arm to nudge you backwards, his other hand tearing your hold off him. It bobs up to his abdomen stubbornly, but you recognise the look in his eyes — unclouded and awake.
"That's…impossible." Your words are barely above a mutter. Clark looks at you, expression still pained, on account of his still-rock-hard-cock lacking any stimulation at all.
You hadn't accounted for the very possibility that the seemingly normal geek you'd been eyeing wasn't human at all. Your toxins permeated out of him entirely, unable to override his Kryptonian DNA.
Your breath hitches, in equal parts shock and panic. Reflexes take over as the twitch of your fingers brought forth green twines from every crack and surface. Thorned vines snake around Clark's limbs, winding around his chest and arms to incapacitate him. They coiled tight, stabbing at his skin until he slammed into the shelves behind.
"What…are you?" Your voice comes out as a hiss, stripped entirely of the sweetness he'd recognised.
The sharpness digs into him, "I should be asking you the same." He's looking down warily, thorns a little too close to his privates.
Clark grunts, his arm twisting and flexing a tinge. You gasp and stumble back when your twine that should've been unmovable rips apart with ease. The shredded vines collapse by his shoes, curling into themselves.
You brace against the shelves behind you.
He was dangerous, and it was becoming apparent that he was well about to overpower you. Whatever he was. But he wasn't quite looking at you with the intention to hurt you.
The hunger was flickering in his eyes. As though he were battling his own resistance. Clark's hands circle the back of your neck, holding you in place by your scruff. It's then you realise that he wasn't immune to your pheromones, just…fighting it.
His breath turns shallow, fingers tensing at your shoulders. Clark doesn't force you, not really, pressing you deliberately, guiding you lower. The shelves you held onto creaked, hands sliding down the wood for balance, knees skimming the carpeted floors.
Clark's jaw twitches, seeing you look up at him, hesitant but willing. You could feel the tremor in his hands, exercising control still.
You lean in, lips pressing at the base of his cock that was springing back to life with the brush of the softness. He grunts in relief, loosening his hold at the back of your neck to rest at the top of your head. Your nose drags up the vein running up his length, mouthing your way up.
"You're not…human…are you?"
Clark grits through pants, thumb grazing your forehead, carding his finger through your hair. "…No.."
"And neither are you, it seems."
You hum against him, fingers wrapping around his girth, tongue swirling at his tip. Clark hisses, hips bucking into your hot mouth. "Mmhn!" You grunt a little, lips stretching around him, stroking at the skin your mouth couldn't take in.
"Just…like that." Clark's hold on your hand remains, despite it twitching to grab you to fuck your throat. You look at him through your lashes, only the column of his throat visible. His adam's apple bobs, mostly out of attempting to practice restraint.
It bothers you that he is, so you're taking him much deeper. Choking on his length until he tangles his hand in your hair. "Urgh—…s..stop." He's slurring through his words, but you're relentless. Moans coming out as gurgles vibrate through his cock. "Y-You're…going to — unhg — h-hurt yourself…"
You frown at his words, especially at the warmth it incites in your gut. It has you working harder, drowning your split-second feeling.
Clark groans, head resting on his shoulder as he watches your cheeks hollow, sucking at his cock with voracious intensity. Drool coats his length and your mouth, and you're pulling off of him suddenly.
He blinks at you, hazily—hand itching to force you back down. A string of saliva follows from his tip, connecting to your lips, and you grab at his cock. Slapping his tip onto your tongue. Clark whimpers, transfixed at the way the corners of your lips quirk as you did so.
You lower your head, tongue catching the base of his balls. "G-Geezus — oh, g—…hrk…!" He's panting at the way your mouth engulfs his sack. Wetness rolling and massaging it.
Clark groans, whites of his eyes fluttering and fighting in an effort not to lose himself entirely. You watch him, cheeks stuffed with the roundness, slobbering over it before you pull away and drag the wetness back up his cock.
He doesn't hold back this time, cupping your jaw to angle himself onto your mouth. His thumb hooks at the corners of your lips, parting them wider to ease his fat tip flat on your tongue. You're drooling over his fingers, wincing when he holds you by the base of your jaw, bullying his cock into your throat.
Clark groans out shakily, tensing at the way your throat constricts around his tip. You aren't able to breathe anymore, shakily gripping around his thighs as he fucks into your throat.
Your pussy clenches at the lack of oxygen, and your hips lift off the ground. Desperate for reprieve. You feel yourself nearly asphyxiate on his shaft and pull away with a stuttered gasp. Clark's eyes flicker with concern, his thumb and forefinger squeezing around your cheeks. "I-I'm sorry. Are you —"
Your fucked-out giggle cuts his concern short. He's blinking dumbly at you as you lick his pre off your lips with a grin. Without answering him, you drag your tongue flat up his work, taking his weeping tip back into your mouth.
"Yeah —… S-Shit. Feels —" Clark whines. His touch turns tender, cupping at the base of your cheek.
He's trying to hold back, trying to be gentle on you. But the pheromones settle within him, potent intensity prickling at every one of his nerve endings. He chases the feeling the suction of your mouth provides him — grabbing a fistful of your hair to tug your head down to take his full length.
You let out a strangled groan as he picks up the speed of his thrusts, hips bucking to fuck your face faster. His cock is deep in your throat, and you can feel tears trailing down your cheeks, pooling at the base of his shaft. The salty tears mixed in with his musk. Your nails dig into his clothed flesh, a futile attempt to brace yourself at the way his hips snap into you.
Clark begins to feel a strangle snaking up his legs, your powers begin to unravel — thorned vines tearing into the fabric of his trousers. He grits his teeth, grip around your hair turning mean, stiffening as he reaches his climax.
There's no warning when his cum spurts down your throat. Your palms flex where his thighs begin to tense. Hot tears prick at your eyes before they trickle down, taking in jolts of his thick, spend.
Clark pulls out slowly, and you cough through it.
Clarity settles in him when he snaps out of it. The post nut clarity hits him like a trainwreck when his gaze falls on you on the ground before him. Sitting on your thighs. You're looking askew, dazed, your hair a mess from his hold, cheeks flushed with exertion.
He drops to a knee, cupping your face up gently in a mild panic, thumbs swiping across your lips to wipe your face clean. "S-Shit— I'm—I'm so sorry. Are you okay? Does it hurt anywhere?"
You barely register his apologetic rambles, blinking slowly as he's combing your hair down neatly, tucking them behind your ears.
"Can…can you stand?" You don't answer him, but he feels your response in the way your cheeks lean into his touch. He exhales slowly, feeling guilt gnaw at his very core.
He doesn't wait, hooking his palms beneath your arms to pull you back up onto your feet, carrying most of your weight. His shoes crunch into something, and the two of you look down, quiet.
The floor was strewn with tangled vines, spanning across the shelves and every crevice.
Summary: You find yourself in a pickle when you accidentally toss Rafe's stash.
warnings: DUB-CON, slightly toxic relationship, voyeurism (or some form of it), Rafe is mean but what else is new, dumb!reader, bimbo!reader, kook!reader
➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies | divider by @firefly-graphics
⭑
You picked at the omelet Sarah made you, stuffing the scrambled egg into your mouth as she ranted about your boyfriend.
“...and then he has the nerve to actually be peeved at our dad like he’s not in the wrong,” she scoffed. “He asked you to do something important, you told him you would, and then you didn’t. It’s not hard math.”
She roughly dumped the skillet into the sink, shaking her head as she turned back around.
“You know what it is…?”
You stared at her as she angrily stabbed into her own omelet.
“I bet you anything he spent the money on booger sugar instead.”
You blinked at her at that and after a few moments she finally lifted her head. Your gazes met as you evenly stared at her, and with a small sigh, she touched your hand. A small smile was on her lips.
“Cocaine.”
“Ah,” you softly replied, nodding.
You weren’t exactly a fan of Rafe’s…habits, but you also saw firsthand how mad Ward could get with him sometimes. Rose too, and when Rafe explained to you one day that the drugs helped to clear his head and prevent him from doing things he’d regret, you became a little more understanding. You supposed that it did help you a bit to see firsthand that he was able to still behave pretty okay whenever he was high, sometimes watching with a slight frown as he snorted the powdery substance off of his hand.
“That doesn’t hurt?” you’d asked him one day.
His only response had been a wolfish grin as he asked you if you wanted some. He’d only laughed to himself before kissing you when you shook your head. You’d never given it much thought—the idea of partaking in that particular hobby of his—but Sarah had done a good job of scaring you away from the idea of ever trying it. Sometimes you swore that Rafe secretly didn’t want you trying it either despite his jokes. That’d been the only time he’d ever offered even though you’d witnessed him with the white substance on many occasions, especially in the privacy of his bedroom.
It was with that thought that your lips parted, something going off in the back of your mind.
“Cocaine is white…right?”
You knew that, but you needed confirmation from someone who wasn’t you. You were starting to second guess what you knew to be true in the hopes that it wasn’t true. In the hopes that you were just having a dumb moment—something Rafe often said— that was different from the dumb moment you were positive you’d had earlier. Sarah gave you a strange look before giving a slow yes, the word dragging out of her mouth.
Your heart skipped a beat.
“...and…kind of like powder?”
Again, her answer remained the same.
“Yes.”
“Oh God.”
You felt her eyes on you as you hurriedly stood up, feet tripping over each other as you rushed to the big garbage in the kitchen. Your heart dropped at the sight of a brand new bag in it, bringing your hand up to your mouth before facing Sarah again.
A ball of dread filled your gut.
“Rose already took the garbage out?”
Sarah’s frown deepened.
“Yeah–Y/N, what is going on, right now?”
“Oh my God, Rafe is going to kill me,” you whined.
“Why–? Hey! Hey, what’s going on?”
She was standing with you, now, her hands on your arms as she forced you to remain still. You heaved a shaky sigh, glancing up towards the ceiling as it was starting to sink in that you fucked up. Again.
“I was straightening up Rafe’s room this morning… You know, putting things away and getting rid of trash,” you softly started, shrinking in on yourself.
Sarah eventually blinked before rolling her eyes.
“I’m not even going to get into that, right now, but okay…”
She urged you to continue.
“I was just tossing away junk…and there was a bag by his lamp, not very big, and there was like…white powder in it…”
Sarah straightened up when you trailed off, lips parting as she seemed to understand what you did before you even said it.
“I didn’t realize what it was!” you rushed to say, explaining yourself. “It didn’t really click at the time and then you started talking about booger sugar and I had it on my mind and…”
You huffed, rubbing your forehead.
“Rafe is going to be so pissed,” you mumbled.
“Who cares? Serves him right, if you ask me,” the blonde shrugged, sitting back down to finish her breakfast.
“Sarah! It helps him,” you defended.
The laugh she barked made you frown.
“Is that what he told you?” she stuffed her face. “It only ‘helps’ him because he’s so goddamn addicted to it. It helps him like tequila helps an alcoholic.”
She didn’t seem concerned in the slightest, and you crossed your arms over your chest.
“So, you’re not going to help me replace it?”
“Uh…that would be a no, and that should go for you too,” she threw you a frown. “God forbid he forgoes the hard drugs for a day or two. Let him be pissed.”
With a frustrated huff, you turned away from her, ignoring her as she told you to just forget about it.
This wasn’t the first time you’d accidentally thrown something out that Rafe needed, only this time was the first time you hadn’t been able to get it back, and you recalled him talking about how expensive it was once. You grimaced at the thought of how much you’d have to pay to replace what you’d thrown out, but it was better than the alternative.
While you were positive Rafe loved you just the way you were, you also didn’t think he’d prefer to deal with your screw ups all the time if he didn’t have to. You frustrated him, that was no secret, and while that frustration never seemed to last for long, you knew that it couldn’t be easy to have you as a girlfriend. You didn’t like to remind him of that.
“Stupid, stupid” you mumbled to yourself as you grabbed your purse, lightly hitting the side of your head.
“Hi! Barry…?”
The dark-haired guy wasn’t alone, and the way he turned his head towards you told you that you had the right guy. Topper had given you a few spots as to where he might be—albeit reluctantly—and you were grateful that you’d only had to go to two locations to find him. Feeling so relieved that you found him—and that Rafe wasn’t going to kill you—you hurried towards him.
He looked at you like you were crazy.
“Oh, thank God,” you sighed. “You sell cocaine to Rafe, right?”
His reaction wasn’t what you expected, at all, the other guy quickly sporting a frown and harshly telling you to ‘shut the fuck up’. You blinked in shock, only able to follow along as he roughly grabbed your arm and pulled you away from the guys he was with. You struggled to keep up—stumbling a bit—and when he felt satisfied enough with the distance to let you go, you almost fell.
“Ayo, are you stupid or something?” he asked you, his fingers pressed to his temple. “You can’t just ask me that, and especially not in front of whoever I’m with.”
Your eyes were wide as he snapped at you, and you deflated a bit, swallowing.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t…”
It didn’t occur to you to be discreet about it, and now that it had been pointed out to you, you felt silly.
“What, you wanna buy or something?” he threw his arms out.
You nodded at that, perking up a bit.
“Yes, please. Whatever you normally sell to Rafe…”
Barry paused at the mention of your boyfriend, eyeing you for a moment before his face evened out entirely. A soft chuckle left his lips as he shook his head. The soft chuckle turned into a full blown laugh, and you felt awkward as you waited for him to finish.
“You’re with Country Club,” he finally said, pointing to you. “You’re his girl…”
You pressed your lips together, head tilting a bit in confusion.
“Rafe,” he gently told you, leaning in, his gold tooth winking at you.
“Oh! Yes,” you excitedly confirmed. “He told you about me?”
The thought made your stomach flutter.
“Oh, yeah,” he dragged the word out, smile crooked. “He’s told me all about you.”
Your smile widened, and he only shook his head again.
“Now…Rafe said you didn’t do drugs,” Barry said, his voice much gentler now as he took your arm and led you away.
“I don’t. It’s not for me, it’s for Rafe…”
“...but I just sold to Rafe. Not even three days ago. You’re tellin’ me he went through all of that already?”
You grew quiet at that, and you glanced away. At the feel of his eyes on you, you met Barry’s gaze again, teeth sinking into your lip.
“Something you wanna tell me?” he softly asked you, leaning in again.
“I accidentally threw it out…”
He seemed to find that hilarious, letting out a laugh that made you jump.
“I was cleaning Rafe’s room,” you started, feeling embarrassed. “...and…”
The dark-haired man wouldn’t stop laughing, and you felt your face heat up.
“Stop! It’s not funny,” you whined. “Rafe is going to be so pissed at me, and I’m trying to replace it before he notices.”
At that, Barry calmed down a bit, but the odd chuckle still climbed you of his throat every time he glanced at you.
“Well, isn’t that sweet,” he commented. “Alright…”
You blinked at him.
“I’ll sell you what I normally sell him, and you know what?” he hummed, thinking.
“What?”
“Since you’re so sweet, and you’re just trying to be a good girlfriend, I’ll sell it to you for a discounted price.”
“Oh!”
Your mood lifted at that.
“Really? Thank you! So, where is it?”
Barry paused at that before chuckling again, and truthfully you didn’t understand why. You weren’t saying anything particularly funny, but you allowed him to lead you along as he neared a black bike.
“See, I keep the uh…cocaine,” he lowered his voice. “...back at my place.”
“Oh,” you softly replied, nodding because that made sense.
“...and you walked here. So uh we’ll have to go on my bike,” he told you, gesturing to the vehicle.
Now, it was your turn to pause, eyeing it as you both stood by it. There didn’t seem like much room for you to ride on it, not unless of course you were plastered to him on the back. You chewed on your lip, weighing it over in your head.
Rafe wouldn’t be happy about this, at all. Your boyfriend practically lost his mind any time another guy so much as glanced at you, so you didn’t want to imagine how he’d feel about you riding on the back of some other guy’s bike. On the other hand though, you wondered what would upset him more? The coke or the bike? Not to mention…
You wouldn’t have a ride back.
You’d likely have to let Barry drive you back to this side of the island, and you sighed in frustration.
“What’s wrong, Mrs. Country Club?” he sweetly asked.
You ignored the nickname.
“How am I supposed to get back…?”
Barry softly laughed at you before climbing on his bike, seemingly sure that you’d be tagging along. You watched him grab the helmet before handing it to you, and you hesitantly took it. When Barry smiled at you, the sun glinted off of the gold on his tooth.
“Don’t worry,” he told you. “I’ll make sure you get a ride back.”
His response seemed genuine, and so you allowed him to slide the helmet over your head, tilting it back to let him secure it. You struggled to push the skirt of your dress between your thighs as you comfortably settled behind him, obeying when he told you to wrap your arms around him. It was only when he was pulling off that it occurred to you that you’d never even ridden on the back of Rafe’s bike like this.
Barry’s house…wasn’t what you expected.
As you sat on the couch in his living room, you looked around the limited space with wide eyes. He’d disappeared into a room somewhere in the back almost immediately the moment you both stepped through the door, telling you to take a seat as he left. You did as he said, and the couch was where you’d been for the past thirty minutes or so.
This process was completely unfamiliar to you, but you told yourself to be patient. You liked to think that Rafe wasn’t home yet and that you still had time to replace his drugs before he noticed. If your boyfriend had noticed, there was no doubt in your mind that he’d currently be blowing up your phone. Speaking of, you glanced at said device again, frowning at the time and wondering what was taking so long.
Just as you were about to call Barry’s name, he finally rejoined you.
“I was starting to think you fell in,” you teased.
He didn’t smile, merely raising one dark brow at you, and you sheepishly chuckled.
“It’s a joke my father says, sometimes…”
You trailed off, shaking your head.
“Is it ready?”
You hoped you didn’t sound as frantic and as desperate as you felt, but you really wanted to get back before Rafe noticed.
“Yeah,” Barry drawled, a crooked smile on his lips as he held the bag up.
You started to stand, but he held a hand out, signaling for you to stay, and you frowned.
“How much do I owe you?”
You watched as he merely sat down across from you, and your frown deepened just as you heard a vehicle outside. You thought nothing of it, instead focused on Barry as he tilted his head from side to side. The dark-haired man hummed to himself.
“I haven’t decided just yet,” he grinned, spreading his arms along the back of the chair. “I’m waiting on a second opinion.”
His answer confused you, and you blinked a few times, trying to decipher what that meant when his front door opened. You didn’t realize he was expecting someone else, but when you turned your head, your eyes widened and your stomach dropped.
“Rafe…?”
Your boyfriend didn’t say a word as he shut the door behind him, and you didn’t need to be a genius to see that he wasn’t happy. Your lips parted, mouth opening and closing as you struggled to understand why he was here, right now. Had he noticed that his drugs were gone and was currently here to buy more? Was this merely an unfortunate coincidence?
“Country club!”
You jumped at Barry’s loud voice, never taking your eyes off of your boyfriend. He kept his hard gaze on you too.
“Glad you could make it—nice girlfriend you got here. She’s a sweetheart, man. I mean, really, she went through all this effort to fix her fuckup,” he said, making you frown. “I almost felt bad calling you.”
At that, you finally looked away from Rafe, spinning around to face Barry, gaze accusatory.
“You called him?” you almost yelled.
“Yes, he did.”
You looked down at the sound of Rafe’s voice, your boyfriend finally speaking to you.
“Get up,” he sneered, nearing you, and you made a noise when he pulled you to your feet.
“Rafe…”
“Inside.”
He forced you back into the very room Barry had disappeared into, surprised to find that it was his bedroom. You didn’t get a chance to look around.
“Are you insane?” Rafe snapped, forcing you to face him with a tight grip on your arm. “Going to Barry? Letting him take you to his house? Alone?”
“He’s your friend,” you mumbled.
You watched Rafe’s nostrils flare.
“He’s not…”
Your boyfriend huffed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Barry and I aren’t exactly friends,” he said to you. “There’s mutual bullshit between us that makes this transactional relationship work, but he’s not my friend and even if he was, you knew better.”
You threw your arm out.
“I was trying to…”
“I know what you were trying to do,” Rafe cut you off. “Barry told me everything. So I ask once again, are you fucking insane?”
“I didn’t want you to be mad at me,” you defended yourself.
Rafe ran his hand through his hair, pushing it away from his forehead. He chuckled to himself before leaning in, his nose brushing yours.
“Well, good job, baby because I’m not mad,” he quietly told you. “I’m fucking furious.”
“Rafe–!”
“You throw away my shit and then in an effort to replace it, you ride on the back of some guy’s bike alone to his house!”
“Well, how else was I supposed to get here?”
“Don’t come here,” he bit out at you, hitting his hands together. “How is that not obvious to you? Anything could’ve happened.”
“I figured you knew him so it was okay…”
Your words died in the air as soon as Rafe started to shake his head.
“I don’t care if it was Topper or Kelce, you know better,” Rafe spat. “So, now not only am I pissed about the drugs, but I’m pissed about this too.”
You felt your throat tighten, and with one look at your eyes, Rafe rolled his own.
“No, no, don’t give me that bullshit…”
“I was trying to fix it!”
Silence stretched between you as you sniffed, looking away from Rafe as you wiped your face. You leaned against the door, staring at the wall as he stared at you. Neither one of you spoke for what felt like a while, and you hesitantly looked at your boyfriend again.
You figured you had a long night ahead of you, but the situation with Rafe’s coke seemed more pressing, and you accepted that you couldn’t make Rafe not mad about this.
“So…what now?” you quietly asked. “How much is he making you pay to replace it?”
Rafe didn’t respond right away, and you felt confused as he moved to sit down on Barry’s bed before reaching out to you. Despite the fact that he was frustrated with you and you were frustrated with him, you went to him, taking his hand. When he pulled you closer, there was a gleam in his eye that you didn’t quite recognize.
“Barry feels bad for you,” Rafe murmured, dragging his eyes over your frame. “To be honest… I think he’s got a bit of a hard-on for you.”
You felt your face heat up at Rafe’s crass language, feeling like you should be used to it.
“Okay,” you dragged the word out. “So how much is he charging…?”
Again, Rafe didn’t answer the question, choosing instead to pull you between his parted knees. You blinked when he slowly reached under your dress, his fingers grazing your thigh as he pressed his lips to your stomach through the fabric. You were slow to catch onto a lot of things, but never when Rafe wanted to get your clothes off of you.
“Rafe…what are you…?”
“You were just trying to fix your fuckup,” he whispered. “I know that, baby…”
He roughly cupped you, making you gasp as he forced you into his lap.
“...but you still have to make it up to me.”
Your lips parted in a silent gasp as he kissed along your throat, worriedly looking at the door.
“Rafe, we can’t! This isn’t–.”
“Don’t worry about it,” was all he said to you, pulling you into a rough kiss.
His 180 gave you whiplash, and every time you tried to remind him that he was in someone else’s room—someone else’s house with said person right outside of the door—he didn’t care. You always said that Rafe was a hard person to say no to, and you really did try. After all, you didn’t feel right about this, at all, but all of your doubts completely disappeared the moment he had you pinned on top of his face.
Your hands pressed against Barry’s wall as Rafe swiped his tongue between your folds, struggling and failing to remain quiet. If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear that Rafe was trying to make you scream. Every time you tried to get off of him, he only tightened his hold and sucked on you harder. It made you gasp and whimper on top of him, squirming with every swipe of his tongue.
“Rafe,” you sighed, feeling no sense of relief when he let you go.
Your chest was heaving and you were fighting to catch your breath when he wrapped his hands around your ankles, yanking you towards him and pushing your knees back. With his own thighs pressed to the backs of yours, you were trapped as he released himself, stroking his cock a few times and rubbing it against you.
“Let me hear you,” he gruffly told you just before sliding his cock past your folds.
You couldn’t hold in your sharp gasp at the intrusion, no longer caring about whose bed or house you were in. Rafe didn’t waste any time, picking up a steady pace and pushing his cock into you to the hilt over and over. You reached up to press your hands against his shoulders in an attempt to ground yourself.
Despite what you wanted, choked moans and soft gasps started to escape your lips. The sounds of them seemed to egg Rafe on, his thrusts growing rougher. Every curve of his hips against yours created static in your brain, and you couldn’t stop mewling beneath him.
“Rafe…oh my God,” you breathed, throwing your head back.
“That’s it,” he whispered from above you.
The unfamiliar bed jostled beneath his movements, and you bit your lip in an effort to stifle the noises climbing out of your throat, but Rafe only fucked you harder at that, making it nearly impossible.
“Rafe, please,” you brokenly gasped. “I’m trying… I’m trying to be…”
“...but I don’t want you to be,” he purred, leaning in and kissing the corner of your mouth. “You know I like it when you get loud.”
You did know that, but you also knew that this wasn’t your house and you were not alone. That didn’t seem to bother Rafe a bit though, and you long decided not to let it bother you when Rafe eventually had you on your hands and knees. One of your hands was pressed into the wall in front of you while the other twisted into the sheets, unintelligible sounds leaving you.
One of Rafe’s hands was pressed into the small of your back while the other was tight around your throat. Your underwear had long been yanked off and thrown somewhere, Rafe’s skin slapping against yours as he pressed kisses to your cheek and jaw.
“I’m not mad anymore,” he whispered against your skin. “...but you can’t trust everyone I trust. You understand?”
“Uh huh,” you breathed, eyes rolling.
“...and stop touching shit in my room.”
“Okay,” you whined, toes curling.
“...but this was really sweet of you…even if it did piss me off…”
“I’m sorry,” you moaned.
“I know, baby,” Rafe breathed, stretching you out around his cock.
When you came around him, you couldn’t stop moaning and whimpering—something Rafe encouraged—and you felt completely worn out when he finally pulled out of you.
The embarrassment didn’t start to set in until a few moments later, and you sat up with wide eyes. Rafe was already coming to you with your underwear, and you didn’t know what to say as he dropped to his knees and slid them up your legs for you.
“Rafe… Barry, he… Oh God,” you sighed, pressing your hands to your face.
Rafe only chuckled before grabbing said hands, pulling them away from your face and you to your feet.
“Barry’s not going to care. Trust me,” he said, leading you to the door.
“How do you know?” you wondered.
Your boyfriend’s only response was a haughty chuckle, and when you exited the room, Barry looked as calm as ever, still in the same spot.
“You two lovebirds make up?” he wondered, a grin on his lips as he eyed you both.
You avoided his gaze, face feeling so hot.
“We’re good?”
You watched as Rafe held his hand out, Barry dropping the bag of coke in it.
“Yeah, Country Club, we’re alright…”
When Rafe started to walk you out, you frowned.
“Wait, but you didn’t pay him…”
Rafe leaned in, his lips brushing your ear.
“Don’t worry about it.”
You didn’t understand, but you didn’t get a chance to think on it more, Barry telling you goodbye from the door.
“Bye, Mrs. Country Club!”
Not wanting to be rude, you peeked around Rafe’s arm.
“Bye, Barry!”
“Pleasure doing business with y’all…!”
Rafe was forcing you into his truck before you could respond to that, tossing you the coke you went through so much trouble for.
I also had this idea about dilf era art having his sex tape(s) leaked.. or leaking them on purpose because his career is falling off.
The Christian moms would be clutching their pearls when they hear about THE art donaldson getting his back blown out 💀
His tennis career might be over but maybe he's got a new one with his pretty younger gf and her massive strap
ufff angel ! !
it’s a massive scandal when it leaks on twitter from an anonymous account.
the start of the video is actually pretty tame; and you’d never expect the man in the video to be the wimbledon-winning art donaldson. the first few minutes show a fit, naked man sitting on the edge of a bed with a girl in his lap. his hands on her hips, his cock bobbing in the little space left between them. she’s wearing a lacy black lingerie set, and even though you can’t see their faces—the framing cuts off their heads—you can tell from the wet, depraved noises alone that they’re aggressively making out.
the sloppy kissing turns into the two individuals getting handsy. he reaches up to squeeze her tits over the fabric, and her hands seem to move up behind his neck to tug on the back of his hair. a flash of blond locks can be seen. that’s the first hint of his identity. he moans when she pulls, his abdomen tensing and his length dribbling a sticky glob of arousal from his tip. in the next instant, one of her hands reaches down and starts to palm his tip. he jolts forward and whines, letting out an anguished “hnnghh” as she starts to stroke him.
his breathing gets quicker, the pale skin of his chest growing more and more pink by the second, before his fingers appear to dig into her body and he tenses up. her hand pulls away, effectively edging him. he shudders and wraps his arms around her lower back, pulling her further into his body. “pleasepleaseplease..” he can be heard whispering to begging her.
the tape cuts to black for only a moment before—
…wow.
she’s now got him bent over onto all-fours on the bed, his ass facing her pelvis while she lines up a thick pink dildo that’s attached to a harness she hadn’t been wearing before. his head is still lifted just enough to keep his eyes out of the video, but his jaw and lips and the tip of his nose can be seen. his mouth is hung open in a desperate ‘o’ while he feels her strap prod and begin to push in. it slides into him with little resistance, and she can be heard cooing down to the man below.
“thaaat’s it, baby.. good job.. guess we prepped you enough, huh?”
it’s teasing yet authoritative in nature, and the man just lets out an anguished groan of pure unfiltered pleasure as she positions her hands at his hips and starts to earnestly fuck into him. each roll of her pelvis elicits a sharp moan and whimper, and anyone watching can clearly see his cock drooling onto the sheets helplessly.
suddenly, after only a couple of minutes of this, the woman hikes her leg up onto the bed, bending it at the knee to gain better leverage on the side farthest from the camera, and pushes her hand down into the space between his shoulder blades.
he lets out a surprised whimper, keens, and then falls face-down into the bedding.
and in that moment in the video, every single person watching finally realized who he was.
all of his features are now totally visible. every single one.
art’s face is burning; his eyes rolling back into his head while his brows pinch up in ecstasy. his cheek is pressing into the mattress, his ass still up to meet her movements. he grips the white bedding under his palms and then bites his lip, “ohhh, fuck,” he whines, almost girlish, “fuck me harder, i’m gonna come, baby— ah-haah— i’m so close right now-!”
he’s making noises like a total pornstar; someone fit for the limelight and the mess of it all.
the woman, who can now be assumed to be his (controversially) younger girlfriend, complies with his begging with no more than a low chuckle. she bucks into him faster, and art yelps.
she raises her right hand and brings it down over his ass in a playful slap before she squeezes the flesh. his entire frame jolts and then he squeezes his eyes shut, his back perfectly arched, “.. im gonna come, can i— mgnh- touch myself? can you-or, i c— AH!”
the tennis player’s words get cut off when the girl leans over his back and wraps her hand around his sticky dick hanging heavily between his thighs. she pumps him quickly in time with her thrusts and it takes no more than twenty seconds before he’s trembling all over. and god, it’s a sight to behold.
a strangled curse flies past his lips before he’s squealing and gushing milky strings of his release over her fingers and onto the bed. moans of pleasure turn into sobs of overstimulation as she milks him in her grasp, strong shots of his orgasm blending into pathetic dribbles of whatever’s left inside his balls.
he collapses under her, her strap still filling him, and she tenderly strokes his shaking back with her left hand. art’s gasping for air like he’s been deprived of it for a moment too long, and some of his hair is sticking to his forehead. his eyes open slightly, albeit lidded, and he moans out a slurred “thank you” before the video cuts to an end.
the uproar in its wake is insane.
he’s all over celebrity gossip magazines, and being talked about in raunchy podcasts, and exploited in deep-dive youtube videos. everything. it’s everywhere.
people were talking about him now who hadn’t even thought about him in years.
he was the talk of the town, really.
.. so art doesn’t even feel guilty that he was the one who clicked ‘post’.
hello lovely angel!! humbly requesting zombie!steve au, perhaps more of jealous steve? i love their dynamic so much💗 maybe someone is flirting with reader, and enter protective steve:)
thanks for requesting! fem, 2k
You tend to think of it in two weird halves. You love Steve, and you never would’ve known that without the end of the world, so things are okay. Sometimes you wonder if he ever could’ve loved you if he hadn’t been so close to you for so long, but he loves you in this insane capacity of softness that says otherwise. Like, soulmate style.
It didn’t begin that way. Steve your reluctant guide, and you his unlikely saviour. You’d stopped him from dying at the very start of it all and he couldn’t leave you behind. And Steve, he’d been mean to you. He didn’t want to take care of you initially, but you’d grown to get along. You’d argue black and blue and he’d still rub your back at night.
There are so many moments you’ve shared that make what you have all the more special. A hundred different memories from before you’d ever kissed. You think about it now, watching him across the firepit as he shows a young girl, Cassandra, how to braid her hair.
The one that’s sticking today is when Steve got really bad food poisoning for the first time. When you’d known you were in love with him for a while, and when he’d stopped pretending he didn’t know. He’d been sick everywhere, on both your shoes, and you’d rubbed his back through everything.
It was nice to take care of him. Nicer that night when you’d shared a bed and he’d hugged you half to death.
He has no idea how much he means to you, or how much those moments with him kept you going when you were all alone. You’re lucky now to have found community, but those stolen hours in bed with him hugging him and getting to be his support, you wouldn’t have made it here without them.
“Hey.”
You look up as a man sits down. A boy, a man —what do you call twenty somethings? You don’t feel like a woman most of the time, but you are.
“Hi,” you say.
“I’m Jamison.”
“You’re Eddie’s friend, right?”
“Who, Munson?” Jamison makes a kidding face, a disgusted scrunch of his eyebrows that falls away to more friendly fondness. “Yeah, we go back. You’re Eddie’s friend too, right? I saw you guys taking out some laundry a few days ago.”
Jamison is handsome. He has tan skin, short hair, and a crooked nose. His smile is disarming. If you hadn’t fallen in love with the handsomest guy around, you might feel nervous under his gaze.
Time spent ugly under Steve’s reverent handling makes you confident. You genuinely feel prettier knowing Steve loves you, and it makes it easier to be yourself with strangers.
“Eddie’s awesome,” you say easily. “I thought he was gonna kill me when we first met, but he’s too nice.”
“Nice, really?”
Jamison is casual, as people go. You wonder what his motivations are for talking to you at first, but as conversation stretches, littered with the cracking pops of the fireplace and brief pauses of surprisingly comfortable silence, you realise he’s just talking. Maybe he’s lonely. You know how that feels.
He tells you that he and Eddie had been in a rock band together before the apocalypse. You’d known to some extent that Eddie was in a band, but Jamison tells you all the details you’d been missing. They were called Corroded Coffin, four members, Eddie played guitar and Jamison thought he was pretty fucking good at it, actually.
“I don’t think we would’ve been, like, Metallica. But we could’ve been good. We were gonna make a record.”
You smoke sympathetically. “I bet you could’ve been.”
“What were you doing? Before all this?”
“I honestly barely remember,” you say quietly. Your life before Steve is a blur, and it’s painful, too. “Things are harder now, I know that. I wish every day that we could go back to how things were, you know, I miss TV and grocery stores and my family.” You lick your lips. “I wish things were different, but somehow, I think I like my life now. I have stuff to do. Is that crazy?”
“It’s not crazy. Everything fucking sucks,” —you both laugh— “but that’s not crazy. I’m lucky, I still have my dad, and my friends. There’s purpose in being here.”
You nod emphatically, just once. “Exactly.”
You have purpose, now. You get to be a friend, a girlfriend, a confidente. You take care of people.
It all comes back to Steve, at the end of the day. Would you change the world if it meant never having met him?
Nope.
You glance across the fire for him, but he’s not there.
You put your arm behind your back and bend, looking for him.
“Looking for someone?” Jamison asks.
You deflate with relief when you spot him standing near the gaggle of tents about fifty feet away. He’s looking at you from over Robin’s shoulder. You wave, and he waves back with a big smile.
Something seems a little wrong.
“Steve,” you explain.
“He’s your boyfriend, yeah? Eddie told me you’ve been together since the start.”
You don’t bother correcting him. He might not mean together as how you’re thinking it. “Yeah, that’s him. Have you met him?”
“Kind of. We all thought he was a huge dick, back then.”
“He sort of was,” you say. “I mean, we all had our own stuff going on. I get that I’m biased, but he’s my favourite person I’ve ever met. He’s so kind, I don’t think I could describe it to you or anyone just how much he cares about people. I wouldn’t be here without him, and… I don’t know, I’m not saying you’re wrong, but if you ever wanted to meet him again, he’s amazing. He’s a great friend. He’s so fucking funny, he makes me laugh every day.”
“He’s sort of giving me the stink eye,” Jamison says.
You wave your hand weakly. “He has raging jealousy issues.”
“Shit, am I getting you in trouble?”
“No, never!” you say, tempted to laugh. “He doesn’t get mad at me for stuff like that. He’s normal, I promise. Just sensitive.”
You tell Jamison that it was nice talking to him because it really was, but you’ve been missing Steve for hours already and you need to get back to him before you go totally bonkers.
He’s sitting on the floor in the tent. The weather has been beautiful lately, you could sleep under the stars if you weren’t scared of being zombie charcuterie. Steve has stripped down to just his jeans and socks, no t-shirt or shoes to be seen. He has his sketchbook splayed open on his thigh, but he abandons it the moment you kneel down.
“Hey,” you say.
Steve folds his book closed, pencil between its pages. “Hi. Have I told you lately how beautiful you are?”
You shuffle in to take his hand. Clumsy touches, his fingers warm and a tad clammy between yours. “You told me yesterday that I have a smile like an angel. I know you were kidding, but I still felt it.”
“I wasn’t kidding,” he says, wrinkling his nose with a smile. “You think every compliment is a joke.”
“Don’t make me laugh so much, then.”
He squeezes your fingers gently. “Sorry I didn’t introduce myself to Jamison. Just, I knew him already from school. And he did not like me.”
“That’s okay. He seemed nice, I think you’d get along if you met now.” You kick your shoes off and crawl as close to him as you can get. He looks up at you, but you look down at his lap. “What are you drawing?”
“I was just trying to touch up that landscape I did of the river,” he says, a sheepishness to him as he opens his sketchbook.
You read it with affection, trace lines and hatchings in awe. “Steve, I really wish you had time and space to do this stuff properly. Not that you aren’t doing it properly, just, I know you could make something just as beautiful as this with paint.” You slide to be sitting properly, putting you both at the same height, so you can meet his eyes as you continue. “Did you know what you wanted to do, when you were finishing school? Did you ever think about art?”
“I thought about it.” His lips quirk. “Mostly about how my dad would’ve kicked me out if I said something that stupid.”
“It’s not stupid.”
“I know.”
That would’ve been a nice life. You and Steve living together, with a basement for his paintings, or a garage turned studio. You’d read books together every night like you do now, and you’d scrub paint smudges off of his cheek.
You love him so much it must give you an aura.
“I’ve got nothing to worry about, huh?” he asks softly.
You drift in, tipping your head back for a kiss you don’t take. “I don’t know, Steve, Jamison used to be in a rock band.”
He scoffs in disgust. You think it might be a mixture of anger at Jamison and himself. “Who wants to date a rockstar?”
“I might’ve.”
You’re teasing, of course, smiling as your kiss draws nearer, and nearer.
“Well, I can be a rockstar,” he says quietly, warmth of his breath on your lips. “Just give me a chance to get there.”
You brush the tip of your nose against his and hold your breath. “That’s okay,” you say, letting it rush out of you in a huff, your excitement to be kissed too much to bear, “I like my guys all mixed up. Preferably good at track, and swimming, but with a soft side. Kind of guy who fills a sketchbook up with my face.”
Steve lists to the side. Your lips are so close, you can feel the phantom of them against yours as he moves in. “It’s not just your face… it’s your hands, your arms… your everything–”
He cuts his own explanation off with a soft kiss. That softness swiftly hardens, turns rough, ten long seconds of sweetness before his hands coming up behind your head and he’s pressing inward, deepening the kiss, and giving you little room to breathe.
You have no intention of dating any rockstars, but his jealous streak has nothing but upsides for you. Steve knows that his jealousy over the innocuous is his own problem, his own insecurity that he’s working on, and while you sympathise with him (after all, haven’t you yourself worried he’d find someone else he liked more?), you have to confess to enjoying the edge to his kissing.
You make a pleased, humoured sound as he breathes you in like you’re a drug he’s been waiting for. He gets sloppier, and you can’t help pulling away to laugh.
“What?” he asks, thumbing at your cheek in a soft juxtaposition. “Sorry, am I being a dick?”
“No, it’s fine. Kiss me how you want to.”
Steve kisses your cheek softly. “He knows you have a boyfriend, right?”
“He knows.”
Steve hums like he’s smiling and nudges your nose with his, until you part your lips, and he wades in for another dose.
would you ever write a ditsy!reader with sirius? where he's grumpy and she's just giggly and makes him feel a little less grumpy? I love you and your writing sending kisses <3
I love you
Fuck’s sake. Sirius glares at the TV. Fuck off.
“What’s it say?” you call from the kitchen.
“It’s raining all weekend.”
“No way, really?” You appear with a tea towel in your hands, wiping your fingers dry one at a time. “Shit, sorry, baby. I guess we better get out our rain ponchos.”
Sirius loves concerts, but he hates shitty weather. “What if they cancel?”
“I don’t think they’ll cancel.” You put the tea towel on the coffee table and gesture for him to do something. What it is you want is unclear, but Sirius leans back, and, as usual, you make yourself at home in his lap. Gentle but not shy. “We might get a bit muddy, is all.”
You rest your ribs half on his chest and half against the sofa. This close, he can confess to finding you the kind of beautiful that makes his jaw ache. Being around you is like a constant re-realisation that you’re his amazing girl, his one good love, as he likes to put it. Romance has never felt more real to him than when he’s with you, slipping his arm behind your back, and letting your nose at his jawline. Then the man on TV says the area is at risk of thunder and lightning on Saturday and he forgets to be in love.
“Fucking hell,” he complains, clinging to you as though you have the power to change what the weatherman has to say.
“It won’t be as bad as you’re thinking,” you sing-song back.
“No, we’ll be turned to husks when we’re struck by lightning, but I’m sure it’ll be great.”
“So negative,” you murmur, drawing along his collar.
“I’m being realistic, lovely, our weekend is completely ruined.”
“That’s not true, is it? Your weekend is ruined. Mine is the same as it was, because I don’t care if it rains on Metallica, I just want to spend time with you.”
“You’re such a dick,” he says through a soft laugh.
“Why? Because I am clearly the more loving partner?” you tease.
“Yes. Because I don’t care about you at all, I only care about the concert, and spending time with you means nothing to me.”
“Oh, well when you put it like that,” you murmur, leaning in to kiss his neck softly. Short presses of your lips with the faintest of sounds, then you're giggling. He’s glad you can’t see his face. You’d run with the honeyed smile he wears now. He would never hear the end of it.
“I’ll have to find your anorak,” he says, rubbing a loving path down your back.
“We’ll get the thermals out of the attic. Don’t worry, baby, the rain won’t ruin all your fun.” You kiss him again, and laugh like you’ve made a joke he isn’t privy to.
“What’s funny?” he asks.
“I just love you when you’re mad.”
“I’m not mad.”
“Aggrieved, then.” You lift your face only to hold his and press your nose to his cheek. You move your face back and forth, like a hurried nuzzling. “You’re such a downer.”
“Stop it.”
“Make me,” you say through giggles.
He closes his eyes and turns in for a proper kiss.
hi jade! i was wondering if you could do a zombie!au fic where r helps steve when he wakes up from a nightmare?
For a split second, Steve doesn’t know that you’re you, and he shoves you away hard. He scrambles away from you in the dark, kicking at your leg, your light sleep torn open as he shouts an unintelligible word and tumbles against the zipped tent door.
“Steve, it’s me,” you say, voice scared and croaky with sleep. “It’s just me, it’s just me. Just us.”
His breath is ragged. Your leg aches from the brunt of his entire body weight, your arm stings similarly. You can barely see him in the dark, his mouth a black hole, his eyes a strange shade of their usual brown as he sucks in harsh breath. You sit up with a groan.
“Just me,” you say again, softer, “nobody else.”
“Did I hurt you?” he asks.
“It’s okay.”
He swallows a lump. “Did I?”
“No. It’s alright. Come back over here, you didn't hurt me.”
He looks at you like you’re an alien, but he shuffles back across the tent to sit by you again on the packed out mattress and your few sheets. When he’s close enough, you take the zipper on his hoodie and pull it down, away from his neck and open, before pushing the garment from his shoulders to bring out his arms. The rightmost has a bad scar from a worse infection running down the forearm, but besides that, he has a smooth expanse of skin for touching. You want to touch him.
“I kicked you,” he says, “I’m sorry.”
You hold him by the elbow, turned to him with your chin up. You want to get a good look at him. His bottom lip trembles. “Bad dream?” you ask gently.
He presses his lips into a tight line.
“I know they scare you, but it’s really okay, Steve, you’re okay.” Your voice has turned to butter, a silky whisper as you bring your hand to his cheek, and he crushes it between his face and his shoulder. “It’s okay.”
“It’s okay,” he says finally, eyes squeezing shut.
Fuck, baby, you think, pushing up onto your knees. “Gonna hug you,” you say, wrapping your arms around his head.
He smells like that strange, subtle sweat that clings to his hair while he sleeps. No discernible odour, but the scent of perspiration. Maybe it’s just how he smells, or his pillow, his t-shirt? You bury your nose into his hair and attempt to rub the tension from between his shoulders.
“You smell nice,” you whisper, pressing a bunch of quick, loving kisses into his limp hair.
“Did I hurt you a lot, when I–” He clears his throat. “I pushed you twice. I’m sorry.”
“Baby, don’t be sorry, I don’t care.”
“I didn’t mean to, I just thought it was you. They were– it was ripping my face off.”
“That’s not gonna happen. Nothing’s gonna hurt you.” You close your eyes, let your face rest almost entirely in his hair. “I'm not gonna let that happen to you, I promise.”
His breathing slows. His hands curl loosely in the front of your shirt.
“Do you wanna lay back down? It’s still night, I think. It’s so cold.”
Steve pulls away from you to look over your face. Without comment, he grabs his hoodie from around his waist to drape over your shoulders, sliding across toward his pillow, a hesitancy in his movements. “I think I’ll stay awake. Just for a bit. I don’t want to have the same dream.”
“I’ll stay awake with you.”
“No, you should sleep. It’ll make me feel better if I can…”
He wants to watch you sleep. You wrap his hoodie around you tightly and slip back down onto your back on the portable mattress, your face to his thigh. You clasp his ankle in your hand.
“You don’t wanna talk about it?” you ask.
Steve encourages your face onto his thigh properly. Your neck aches, but you’ve no inclination to tell him as his hand cups your neck. “No. It was stupid. I woke you up. Scared you.”
“No way. You don’t scare me.”
He exhales. His thumb strokes your chin. “At least I get to wake up to you. From a nightmare to a straight up dream.”
You hold his eyes. “Oooh, smooth.”
He bends down to touch your nose to his. “I really don’t hurt you?” he asks again, whispering.
“No, I promise.”
You draw lazy half circles into his ankle and pretend to feel more tired than you do. Steve stays there for a while, bent over you without a sound. His hands are shaking. When sleep begins to weigh you down again, he noses a kiss behind your ear and sits up. You wonder what he’s thinking, listening to his breath. He doesn’t wake you again that night.
Eleutheromania, or eleutherophilia is "a mania or frantic zeal for freedom"
Plaga Leon x plaga fem reader
Cw; kidnapping, physical violence/abuse, dumbification, humiliation, forced pet play, mindbreak, dub-con/noncon, breeding kink. Basically Leon being made into a dog.
2.2k words
Thank you to @rigorwhoring for proofreading and hyping me up 💋 the literal bae ever
Dedicated to my wife @moonrisecoeur !
DEAD DOVE | DARK CONTENT
Ashley's hands tremble as she cries, gun unsteady in her grip as she struggles against the command of the parasite. A shot narrowly misses Leon's head, his face scrunched in agony. He's never feared death. Not since 1998. Staring down the barrel of his own gun, ironically, a way he'd imagined dying many times. Ashley's finger wobbles on the trigger. This one's gonna hit, he knows it - she knows it. This is the end.
"Stop!" an unfamiliar voice cuts through the sobs filling the room. Saddler sighs, turning to face the source. "Don't kill him!"
"He's a heretic in need of disposing," The priest narrows his abnormally bright eyes. "I can't have him running around and ruining our plans, my lady" 'My lady'?...Leon guesses you must be another member of Valdelobos aristocracy.
"Give him to me" you pout "I'll keep him in line" Figures. You seem entitled.
Osmund grunts, followed by the sound of metal clattering to the ground. Ashley gasps in relief when her body involuntarily drops the gun. "Just keep him out of my sight."
A wicked giggle echoes off the walls as you get what you want. Saddler has his minions drag Ashley away, her screams falling on deaf ears, and leaves Leon paralysed in place for you to do as you wish. Nails, sharp like claws, trace the prominent black veins under his skin. Your touch is cold and greedy like a vortex, stealing the warmth away from him. Everything about you sets him on edge. "I think you'll do nicely" you grin, the corners of your mouth stretching unnaturally far and, for a second, Leon's sure your skin will split open.
The world fades to black as an overwhelming pain throbs in his skull. When he comes to he finds himself in front of a lit fireplace, head spinning and brain foggy, he blinks a few times to recalibrate his vision. The first thing he notices, which he vaguely regards as strange, is that he seems to be laying on some sort of cushion. The second thing Leon notices, which immediately pulls him back into reality, is that he's been stripped of his clothes. Not just his expressive coat this time but every item of clothing.
"What the fuck-" he hisses, jumping to his feet - or at least he tries to until a chain tugs at the metal collar around his neck and he falls to his knees. Chained, naked and in an unfamiliar environment. Just another day for Leon really, only this time a safeword isn't going to save him. Whipping his head around frantically, he notices the decor of the room - a bedroom and a rather fancy one at that.
"You're awake!" You announce with glee, stepping out from behind a privacy screen. A burst of both rage and embarrassment spark to life in Leon's gut and he quickly covers his delicates with both hands whilst trying to rise to his feet in some instinctual attempt to fight. You only laugh as he stumbles. "Don't try to stand. There's only enough length on that chain to crawl" your words come out breathy and amused. This is some kind of game to you.
"What kinda sick shit is this?" He barks, practically snarling up at you, although it's difficult to look menacing with those American girl doll teeth.
"Oh, calm yourself, little lamb. I'm doing you a favour"
"You think chaining me up like an animal is doing me a favour?" Leon scoffs in return.
"Lord Saddler would have had you killed or worse - put to work as some kind of soilder. Haven't you fought enough? Aren't you tired of it?" The more you talk the more Leon's brain turns to mush, your voice like a hypnotic lullaby. It's involuntarily, the way he drops his arms back at his sides, his muscles realx to the point he feels like jelly. All loose and sluggish. "I couldn't let such a fate befall a pretty thing like you"
Somewhere in a faraway whisper, Leon's conscious tries to break out of this trance. "Wh- what are you saying?"
"Shhh" you hush him with a finger to his lips "quiet now, no need to think anymore. Just be a good little pet, that's it"
No, this isn't right. But it’s becoming difficult to remember why... The parasite in his bloodstream pulses and buzzes with the thrill of the attention. It makes his dick twitch. Yes my queen. Tell me how to behave my queen. The sensation of your finger pushing past his lips, exploring the wetness on his tongue, sends even more of his blood flowing south. This is wrong. He reminds himself, fighting hard to regain control. This is dehumanising. A small spark of autonomy comes back to him and it's a mere reflex to bite down on the intrusion inside his mouth.
A pained hiss follows, finger yanked back with blood spurting in it's wake. "You foul, wretched mutt" you shout, backhanding him hard across the face. The blow sends Leon down, hitting the freezing stone floor. "You need to be taught some manners"
"Screw you" Leon growls back, one side of his face stinging and red. He watches as you walk away, long dress dragging behind you. Does everyone in this place dress like its still the victorian times? At least you're easier to look at than Saddler or Ramon, still relatively human looking except from your clawed fingers and wide mouth.
Watching you rumage around through a chest in the corner of the room, Leon's mind begins to drift to Ashley. Where did Saddler take her? What were they doing to her now? Guilt and worry chew at his frontal lobe harder than any parasite could, exposing raw nerves and primal fear. It had to be different. That's what he'd promised himself. Now look at him, enslaved to another cruel mistress. So deep in retrospection, he doesn't notice you approaching until your hands are on his face. A dry leather material irritates his supple skin and he shakes his head in attempt to free himself from whatever contraption you're attaching.
"Much better" you announce, pleased with yourself having muzzled your new beast. It's an old dusty piece of equipment but it works well enough.
"Ywr pthetic" Leon's words are muffled. Shame has really started to soak in now, what would his colleagues think if they could see him like this? Prized agent of the D.S.O reduced to a plaything.
"Oh I'm pathetic?" You laugh in his face, flashing that same horrifying, stretched out grin. "That’s funny considering how you look right now"
"Wht r'yw gnna do w'me?" The question comes out clumsily now his jaw is locked in place but his meaning is clear. He wants to know why you're doing all this. There's obviously an end goal or else you'd just have let him die to begin with.
"You're going to be my puppy" you clasp your gnarled hands together and bat your eyelashes. It seems easy enough. To just crawl after you and whine for a soft hand in his hair rather than a palm across his face. No more grueling missions or fighting for his life. Sure it's demeaning but what does that matter in the grand scheme of things? Obviously that's the parasite talking. Or at least he tries to convince himself. Can you really blame him after years of rigorous training? It's engraved in his brain to follow commands. 'Yes ma'am.' 'As you say ma'am.' 'Right away ma'am.' He's always been a good boy. So what if his cock gets hard everytime you pull on his muzzle and force him around like a doll? That's just the plaga side of him.
The remaining human part of his mind runs through a wheel of responses before settling on "fuck you! I'm not some dog" Gripping a fistful of his hair, you yank him closer, the parasite in his veins screams in fear. Your anger exudes into the space around you and seeps into Leon's infected brain. I've upset my mistress, I need to be punished. His body betrays him, forcing him still and to accept whatever fate you deem him worthy of.
"I don't think you're understanding that this isn't a choice" you sneer. The force in which you pull his hair makes his scalp burn and eyes tear up. He's sure you'll rip a chunk out with the way things are going... but to his surprise you release him. Fishing a key out of the hundreds of ruffles and folds in your dress, you unlock the restraint around his neck. Are you letting him go? Of course not. What a stupid thing to even think. You're going to do mutch worse than restrain him - you're going to turn his mind and body against him. "Crawl to me" you demand as you retreat a few paces and sit at the edge of your queen sized bed.
There's no way he would- but he does. Before he can even blink his knees are against the hard floor and he's dragging himself to your feet. The control of the plaga seems to have doubled, so eager to bow to its fair lady. He tries to stop, muscles straining so hard he gets lighthearted, to no avail. Though his mouth was mostly hidden, it wasn't hard to miss the way he was glowering. Drooling like a true mutt, his body was shaking with the effort of trying to will it back under his own authority.
"Stop that before you burst a blood vessel" you scold him by swatting at his muzzle. The permanent headache pounding in the back of his skull intensifies and sends his vision cloudy. The faint candlelight flickering behind you smears out in faint streaks, giving you a translucent halo. Even his own eyes were telling him to give it up. Let you be his new deity, bow down and live in blissful ignorance.
Neck craining to watch you rise, Leon's eyebrows raise when you begin to pull down your dress. Letting it sink to the floor, you unlace the stiff corset beneath with a practised speed. And then you're... naked. It's not a bad sight either - considering. There don't seem to be any apparent anomalies or mutations growing from your flesh. "Mnm wuh're you...?" He asks with a hint of disbelief, the confusion and slight panic only intensifying as you position yourself on the bed.
On your hands and knees, pussy right in his face, you look over your shoulder at him. "Up" you speak so calmly, like this is completely normal.
"Wa- no!" Leon attempts to argue but his limbs betray him yet again. He's up on the bed right behind you, eyes unable to leave the sight of your weeping hole. There's just no way this is happening. He can't process it. "Y'can js uth me lke um toy!" This is disgusting, this is... this is vulgar. The thought of being forcibly made to screw like a mindless breeding pet makes his stomach churn. This can't happen, please.
Wiggling your hips, you let out an impatient puff of air. "Hurry up and mount me, you dumb dog!" That shouldn't make his cock drip precum. It shouldn't make his mouth water. Shouldn't make his hips jolt. That pressure in his head starts to numb the longer he gawks at your open cunt. A sense of peace washes over him as he pushes himself ontop of you, arms bracing his weight on either side of your head. His spit drips steadily onto your shoulder and neck as he tucks his face into the crook of your shoulder. He doesn't want this. He doesn't! It's gross.... it's.... it's, getting harder to think the closer his dick gets to the heat of you. The contrast between your cool skin versus the radiating warmth between your legs sends a shiver down Leon's spine. Everything about you is confusing.
A whine slips out as his tip brushes your slit. He drops some of his weight onto you, unable to hold himself with the overwhelming sensation. "Mm...nn not ryt, s'not ryt" he whinpers as his cock slides into you on it's own accord. "Don'wnt thi- hm fck!" His complaints are cut off when his balls slap against your fat lips. Mentally he's fading... losing any will or conscious. Fuck, breed, please. That's all that remains.
"Ah, that's it doggy, just let it take over. You know you like it" your taunting is lost on him now as he thrusts in and out. Panting and slobbering, he stares down at the crimson sheets where his fingers dig into the material for purchase. More whines fall from his spit soaked lips as he tries to lick at your skin through the cage on his mouth. Fuck, breed, please my mate.
It's not long before he's forgotten where he is, why he's here, how he got in this situation. You officially broke him. His moans are loud and desperate, pistoning into you so hard that you'd go flying out from under him if his weight wasn't keeping you in place. "Fll y'up,need t'fuck thif cm into ths cnt" he growls like this is his mission. In a way, it is. His new purpose. Breed. Fuck. Breed. Cum. Fuck. Breed.
Almost Always Fangirling. @afangirlingroadman - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
