Imagine being the first to find out your ex-husband, Ryland saved the world only because he wrote you down as his emergency contact.
As painful as it is to admit, some relationships werenât meant to last. Your marriage was a prime example of that (ouch!). It was understandable you were two ambitious people chasing careers that demanded everything you had to give.Â
And something did give.
The separation had been... amicable. No screaming. No lawyers. Just people who realized love doesn't always keep two lives from drifting apart.
So imagine your surprise when, years later, two government officials appeared at your door asking you to come with them to resolve some matters having to do with your ex-husband.
The rest of the trip was spent in silence.
By the time you arrived, your phone, keys, and wallet had all been collected. Without a word, an escort guided you through a maze of hallways until they stopped outside a plain office door.
A single knock.
"Come in."
The door opened to reveal a modest office. Behind the desk sat a woman flipping through a neatly organized stack of folders. She didn't look up as you entered, simply turning another page before speaking.
"Sit."
Only after the door clicked shut behind you did she meet your eyes. Only then did you learn the truth: Ryland had listed you as his emergency contact, even after youâd both separated.
The woman introduced herself simply. Eva Stratt. She went straight to the beginning explaining Astrophage, the desperate race for a cure, and how, for a while, everything had seemed to be falling into place.
Until it wasn't.
One setback became another, options disappeared one by one, and eventually there was only one person left who could complete the mission.
And so, humanity sent him into space to save the world.
"Project Hail Mary succeeded. He sent the Taumoeba. He saved us."
Relief. Then dread.
"But the ship didn't return. He's stranded."
Alive... but not coming home.
She placed a small USB drive between you. It has a piece of tape with your name on it, and small doodles of what you can out as a spaceship, stars, and himself.
"Dr. Grace left this for you. It took us some time to find you, but we have not viewed the recording. We believed it should remain private."
And with that you were dismissed as if the conversation you'd just had hadn't completely upended your life.
You and Ryland had gone your separate ways years ago. The divorce had been mutual, and the two of you had built separate lives. But that didn't mean you had stopped caring. It certainly didn't mean you had stopped loving him.
Knowing he was alive should have been a comfort. But it wasn't...
He had saved humanity, and now he was stranded somewhere among the stars, farther away than anyone could ever hope to reach.
So the USB sat untouched for awhile, you couldn't bring yourself to watch it
You weren't sure what scared you more, that the man in the video would feel like a stranger, or that he'd feel exactly like the Ryland you remembered.
Because once you watched it...
There wouldn't be another message.
There wouldn't be another phone call.
Another letter.
Another chance.
Just whatever Ryland had decided were his final words to you.
It took you a long time to find the courage.
But eventually, you plugged the drive into your computer and pressed play.
Ryland's face filled the screenâtired, messy hair, grinning that same crooked smile.
"If you're watching this..." he rubbed the back of his neck, laughing awkwardly, "...I guess I kind of screwed up the return trip."
He recounted the mission in his rambling way: the Astrophage, the Hail Mary, how he woke up not remembering anything, about an alien he'd somehow become best friends with, and all the unbelievable things he'd seen. He apologized for not coming back, how he wish he could change things.
Then he panned the camera around the ship, showing alien samples, the weird light of Tau Ceti, even a clumsy dance he knew you'd roll your eyes at.
"Thought this might make you smile," he said softly. "Didn't want you to be sad."
In the last few minutes, his tone softened even more. He hoped you were doing better, that life had been kind. He said space wasnât so bad, just really quiet. Then, almost whispering, he looked straight into the camera.
"I still love you. Nothingâs changed that."
You clutched the screen, whispering through sobs, "That idiot... you absolute idiot."
The video ended. The room felt colder, emptier than space itself.
One thing was clear he never stopped loving you,
He just ran out of time.
It would take divine intervention to keep me away from Ryland Grace.
Imagine scolding Ryland for saying 'whoomp there it' is in a meeting (not lore/movie accurate order of events):
Adding on to my last two post, i canât stop writing :)
part 1 & part 2
After spending a day essentially being a glorified babysitter for the world's smartest diplomats and making sure they didn't start an international incident over a small mistake or an unfortunate choice of wording, you were rewarded with...
Another meeting.
This one was somehow even worse.
Hours of representatives, scientists, and government officials arguing over Astrophage production how to scale it, where to build new facilities, which countries gets to send their best people on this mission.
The same points.
Repeated.
Again.
And again.
You tried to stay focused.
But after sixteen straight hours of putting out fires, the voices slowly blurred together into one endless hum. Your eyelids grew heavier. Your notes stopped making sense halfway down the page.
Just for a second...
You let yourself drift.
You didn't even notice that someone had called on Ryland to explain the latest breakthroughs in Astrophage production.
You only came back to reality when a voice rang through the room.
Loud.
Confident.
"...Whoomp, there it is."
Silence.
Your eyes flew open.
You sat bolt upright so fast that both people beside you jumped.
Across the room, Ryland stood at the front with dozens of diplomats, scientists, military officials, and representatives staring at him in complete disbelief.
He blinked.
"..."
"...I don't know why I said that."
You were already on your feet.
"Excuse us."
Nobody stopped you as you crossed the room, grabbed Ryland lightly by the elbow, and steered him out into the hallway before anyone could recover enough to ask questions.
The conference room doors swung shut behind you.
You pinched the bridge of your nose.
"...Ryland."
"I know."
"No, I don't think you do."
"I really don't."
You let out a slow breath.
"Why would you think that was an appropriate thing to say in front of representatives from half the planet?"
He looked genuinely baffled.
"I blanked."
"You blanked..."
He nodded once.
"And somehow your brain landed on a 90's rap song."
"I didn't choose it..."
"You could've said anything else, like literally anything."
"I know."
"You could've told them you needed another round of testing."
"I know."
"You could've said the data was still being analyzed."
"I know."
"You could've literally coughed."
"I know." Ryland rubbed the back of his neck.
"...In hindsight..."
"In hindsight?"
"...Not my strongest professional moment."
You closed your eyes for a moment.
Then sighed.
"...Give me five minutes."
"For what?"
"To convince every world leader in that room that humanity's best chance of survival didn't just suffer a complete psychological break."
I'm not sure if you take requests or not but uhhhh your clicker-trained Ryland fic did something to me and I need to tell you A Thought
Clicker4clicker trained RylandxReader. Ryland with his attention clicker training and Reader for when they are talking bad about themselves or downplaying achievements. You both are fully aware that you're clicker trained, but so is the other so no one talks about it. Plus it helps keep their leading scientist in his own head and their [whatever job we have] happy and appreciative of the job
yes, I do take request and I ran to write this because I had more thoughts for the original piece I posted.
Imagine Ryland also correcting your bad habitsâŠ
Here -> part 1 or part 3
You had this annoying tendency to convince yourself that anything you accomplished either wasn't difficult, wasn't important, or didn't really count because to you "someone else could've done it."
It wasn't exactly difficult for him to notice.
The two of you spent practically every waking hour together.
If you weren't asleep, eating, taking a bathroom break, or trapped in separate meetings, you were usually within a few feet of each other coordinating humanity's last chance at survival.
So went he recognized the pattern of every compliment coming with an rebuttal, every impossible task being labeled as "just part of the job".
He genuinely couldn't understand it.
The world was on a one-way track to end in thirty years if this mission failed.
If humanity survived, history would remember the people in this room as the ones who had saved it.
And if humanity didn't survive...
Well.
You still deserved credit for trying.
So Ryland did what you had done for him months ago. He adapted. Unknowingly.
It happened during the fourteenth hour of a particularly brutal workday.
You'd just finished presenting an updated logistics report, that you spent days reworking to fit your current situation.
"...So with the revised transport schedule, we should save approximately thirty-six hours during equipment relocation."
One of the department heads smiled.
"Excellent work."
You gave an awkward shrug.
"It wasn't really anything specialâ"
"Ahem."
Ryland cleared his throat.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Your rambling came to a halt.
You blinked.
"..."
Your eyes drifted toward him.
He didn't even look up from the equations covering his notebook.
He simply continued writing, waiting.
You sighed through your nose.
"...It took a while to put together."
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of Ryland's mouth.
Ryland gave a tiny approving nod before returning to the orbital calculations in front of him as if nothing had happened.
And Ryland thought nothing of it until it happened again, about a week later.
"You really did a good job, I don't think we could've coordinated with six international agencies without you're help."
"I just answered emaiâ"
"Ahem."
"..."
"... thanks, It took a lot of coordination."
And again.
"I got lucky."
"Ahem."
"...But I also worked really hard."
Grace was surprised that all it took was a simple verbal cue to redirect your thoughts before all the negatives dug too deep. So he never stopped, he'd figured that if he gave you even three uninterrupted seconds to downplay yourself...
You'd somehow convince yourself that coordinating half the planet's survival effort was equivalent to remembering to refill the printer paper.
Which, according to you...
"...was honestly harder."
"Ahem."
"..."
"...Okay, maybe not."
Neither of you ever talked about it. There wasn't really anything to discuss. Both of you learned had learned each other's bad habit. Both corrected it. And both of your jobs became easier.
That was enough.
Everyone else, however... Had questions.
Another instance, happened during a security briefing.
One of the generals looked toward you.
"I'd like to officially commend Agentâ"
"It really wasn'tâ"
"Ahem."
You stopped.
Closed your mouth.
Took a slow breath.
"..."
"...Thank you." you said before falling back to your notes as if nothing unusual had happened.
The room fell silent.
The general slowly turned toward Ryland.
"...Did..."
One engineer immediately sat forward.
"Oh my God."
Another pointed between the two of you.
"He's doing it too."
Ryland blinked.
"...Doing what?"
"You keepâ"
The engineer awkwardly cleared his own throat.
"Ahem."
Nothing happened.
You kept reading your notes.
He tried again.
*AHEM.*
Still nothing.
You looked up.
"...Do you have something in your throat?"
From that day forward, it was just how things worked. And, no one even thought twice about it.
Meeting running long?
Click.
Ryland looked up.
"What'd I miss?"
You'd spent the last twenty hours coordinating between five continents, trying to keep governments cooperating long enough to focus on the mission instead of each other.
"It wasn't that baâ"
"Ahem."
"..."
"...I'd like coffee."
"I already got you one."
A steaming mug slid across the table without Ryland looking.
You accepted it with a quiet, "Thanks."
Neither of you acknowledged the exchange. This was your normal.
The new intern, on the other hand, had just seen both habits play out over the course of multiple days at this point.
Click.
Ryland immediately stopped staring out the window.
"Sorry. Continue."
Five seconds laterâ
"I should've caught that mistake earliâ"
"Ahem."
"..."
"...I also corrected it before it became a problem."
The intern looked between you.
Then back again.
Then quietly whispered to the nearest engineer,
"...Do they always do that?"
The engineer didn't even look up from his laptop.
"...Basically."
"But why? they're both incredibly good at their jobs."
"Yeah they are, But they're also terrible at managing themselves. Fortunately, they outsourced that responsibility to each other."
As if to prove the point, Ryland silently pushed a cinnamon candy toward you after noticing you'd skipped lunch.
Without thinking, you unwrapped it...
Only for Ryland to steal it off your desk moments later.
You sighed.
"That's mine."
"You weren't eating it."
"I was saving it."
"For when?"
"I don't know."
Ryland popped it into his mouth.
"Waste of good cinnamon candy."
"You keep saying you hate those."
"I do. It's just the best of the bad options."
"You've eaten the entire bag."
"They'd go stale otherwise."
"...That's not even a good excuse."
"And yet," he said around the candy, "you still remembered to buy more."
You rolled your eyes, unable to suppress a smile.
No one in the room questioned it anymore. By now, everyone had accepted one simple truth:
Humanity's greatest scientist and the government agent assigned to keep him functional had, somewhere along the way, figured out how to keep each other functional.
As far as anyone was concerned, it was working remarkably well.
Imagine accidentally pavloving Ryland into paying attentionâŠ
( I need clicker trained Ryland in my life)
Here -> part 2 or part 3
"Grace."
Nothing.
You glanced down at your clipboard before looking back at the man who's currently attempting to see how far he could lean back in his chair before gravity eventually won.
"...Grace."
Still nothing.
His attention was somewhere beyond the conference room walls. Judging by the absentminded smile on his face, he was probably replanning a middle school science lesson in his head instead of listening to the briefing about humanity's impending extinction.
Around the table, scientists exchanged grim looks.
You sighed.
It had taken exactly four meetings to realize Dr. Ryland Grace wasn't ignoring people on purpose.
His brain simply... wandered.
Constantly.
Which was a problem when every meeting contained information that might save the world.
So you did what every exhausted government handler eventually does.
You adapted.
The first time, it had been accidental.
You noticed he'd finally answered a question after you'd slid a mug of coffee in front of him.
The second time, it happened again.
By the third meeting...
"...Grace."
You set a chocolate bar beside his notebook.
His head snapped up immediately.
"Yep."
Every eye in the room turned toward him.
"...Were you listening?"
"...Absolutely."
"You weren't."
"I wasn't."
But this was enough to help you refine the system.
Coffee.
Chocolate.
Occasionally those tiny cinnamon candies he insisted he didn't like because it's "old people candy" despite mysteriously eating every single one.
Never as a reward.
Always as a cue.
Whenever something important came up...
Tap.
A mug appeared beside him.
His attention shifted instantly.
Months later, you didn't even need the coffee anymore.
A click tap of your pen was enough to get his attention.
*Click.*
Ryland looked up automatically.
The sudden movement scaring one scientist.
â
Ryland didn't notice.
Or maybe he did.
Maybe he simply appreciated that someone had figured out how to cut through the tornado in his head without embarrassing him.
Because he'd started doing it himself.
Whenever he caught his thoughts drifting, he'd glance toward you.
You'd press the tip your pen once.
*Click.*
His focus settled back into place.
â
Months later, during one particularly heated strategy meeting, two physicists were arguing over equations while everyone else slowly lost the will to live.
Ryland had completely checked out.
His eyes were fixed on a bird outside the window.
You didn't even look up from your folder.
*Click.*
One press of your pen.
Ryland straightened instinctively.
"What'd I miss?"
Half the room stared.
He blinked.
"...Why's everyone looking at me?"
One of the engineers pointed between the two of you.
"Did..."
He frowned.
"...Did they just summon your attention?"
Ryland looked at you.
You looked back with perfect professionalism.
"No idea what you're talking about."
"...Huh."
He shrugged.
"Anyway, continue."
The meeting resumed.
Someone leaned over and whispered to you, "You're never beating the clicker-training allegations." (apparently everybody noticed Ryland's habit before this moment, much to your dismay)
"Ryland"
Without missing a beat, you reached into your bag and tossed a cinnamon candy across the table toward Ryland.
He caught it without looking.
"Thanks."
"...You brought him, treats?" the engineer whispered.
You smiled faintly.
"I'm a government agent, it's my job to keep his attention."
Imagine being an emotional support hologram on the Hail MaryâŠ
(Inspired by joi and k's relationship from Bladerunner 2049)
Ryland couldn't remember a thing when he first woke up.
He remembered the fear. pain.
The smell of antiseptic.
The crushing silence of the ship.
Then a warm voice drifted through the incubation room.
"Hello."
He looked up.
Light spilled from hidden projectors in the ceiling, threads of gold weaving together until a person stood beside his bed.
You smiled at him.
Not too brightly.
Just... patiently.
To the shock of a very much confused Ryland Grace
"You a hallucination?"
"No."
"...Robot?"
You laughed.
"I don't think you'd like it if I answered yes."
-----------
It wasn't until he realized what you truly were a hologram, an Adaptive Emotional Companion (that's what the Government would call you), designed to keep the crew from losing themselves to the endless isolation of space.
He found himself talking to you more than he meant to.
Mostly because you were always there.
From the moment he woke up.
You appeared while he ate.
While he ran experiments.
While he complained that astrophage was somehow violating every rule biology had ever established.
You listened.
Asked questions.
Laughed at jokes that weren't funny.
Even in the Don't Go Crazy room, where he went to clear his head, you were there. Ryland kept his eyes shut, pretending he hadn't noticed your presence as your semi transparent fingertips traced the curve of his cheek, careful not to break the illusion that you couldn't touch him.Â
You were always there. Some days, Grace forgot you weren't human. It happened most often at what you call 'night', when you'd lie on the bunk across from his, your holographic form bathed in the ship's dim lighting, quietly rambling about whatever crossed your mind while he listened with heavy eyelids. By the time your voice had faded into the background, sleep had already found him.
And when Rocky arrived, he didn't know what to make of this strange arrangement.
Summary:Adrian doesn't know what to do with himself. You've been gone on a mission for three days, and he's starting to realize just how much he misses you. It's going to be a long few days until you're expected back.
Tags: SMUT (18+), porn with plot, Adrian lying about cleaning, this sat in my drafts for over a year and its past time to post
Youâd only been gone for three days.
Three. Days.
And Adrian Chase swore it was slowly killing him.
The apartment felt too quiet without you. He could still hear your voice echoing in his head, teasing him about his off-key singing in the shower, your laugh bouncing off the kitchen tiles when he burned yet another grilled cheese. Now? Nothing. Just the buzz of the fridge and the hum of the ceiling fan overhead.
At first, Adrian tried to distract himself like a normal, functional adult. He polished his knives. Alphabetized the spice rack. Watched Die Hard four times in a row. But the silence only pressed heavier against him. Heâd glance at the couch and see the dent where you usually curled up. Your jacket was still slung over the back of the chair. Your shampoo still lingered in the bathroom.
Everywhere he lookedâthere you were. And nowhere you actually were.
The ache of it settled deep in his chest, restless and buzzing. His leg bounced constantly. His thoughts looped like a scratched record. Youâre gone. Youâre gone. Youâre not here.
By the third night, he was unraveling.
He sprawled out on the bed, your pillow clutched to his chest like a lifeline. It still smelled like youâwarm, soft, everything that made him feel safe. But the more he pressed his face into it, the worse it got, the hollowness in his chest yawning wider.
He tossed and turned, sheets tangling around his legs. His brain wouldnât stop. What if something went wrong on the mission? What if you got hurt? What if you didnât come back?
And then, the darker thought slipped inâwhat if you didnât miss him the way he missed you?
That one hit like a knife twist. He couldnât breathe around it. Couldnât stay still. His body vibrated with jittery need, with the desperate urge to feel something other than the gnawing hole youâd left behind.
So he gave in.
He yanked open the dresser and grabbed one of your shirts, worn soft from being washed a hundred times, and climbed back into bed with it. The second he pressed it to his face, inhaling deep, he groaned, his cock twitching against the fabric of his sweats. It wasnât enough. Nothing was enough, but he couldnât stop.
âFuck, babe,â he whined, already tugging his sweats down, wrapping his fist around himself. His strokes were rough, messy, too fast, like he was chasing something just out of reach. âWhyâd you have to leave me here all alone? Itâsâitâs, like, super bad for my mental health, you know that, right?â
He moaned into your shirt, imagining the weight of your body over his, the way you straddled him, kissed him until his brain went white-hot and useless. His hips bucked into his hand, precum slicking his fist as he rutted desperately against the phantom of you.
âYou donât even know what you do to me,â Adrian babbled, his voice cracking. âGod, Iâd do anythingâanythingâif you were here right now. Just one round. One little roundâfuck, I need youââ
His eyes rolled back, the heat building fast, dizzying. He pressed the shirt harder to his face, groaning your name, his whole body trembling with need.
And then his phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Adrian startled so hard he almost fell off the bed. He scrambled, hand still slick on his cock, fumbling with the screen until he finally hit accept, breathless.
âH-Hey,â he stammered, voice too high. âWhatâs up?â
On the other end, your voice was warm, calm, real. âJust finished up. Mission ended early.â
Adrian froze, every muscle locking.
âUhâw-what? Early? Like⊠how early?â
âEarly early.â You laughed softly, the sound making his chest ache in the best and worst way. âYea, Iâll be home in an hour. maybe we could watch that new show you were talking about.â your voice started to trail off
His hand slipped off his cock like it had betrayed him. He slapped the shirt down, face blazing. âOh, uh, cool, yeah! Awesome. Great news. Thatâs⊠so great. I should, um, probably clean up a little then.â
Silence. Then a suspicious hum. âClean up?â
âYep!â He squeaked. âDishes. Laundry. Definitely not jerking off thinking about you right now. Ha ha. Thatâd be insane.â
You sighed, fond and exasperated all at once. âAdrianâŠâ
âDonât worry, babe,â he muttered, half-dying inside. âIâll be⊠presentable by the time you get here. Mostly.â
Another soft laugh from you, this one warmer, almost wicked. âYou know I can hear how out of breath you are, right?â
Adrian dropped his head back against the couch with a defeated whine, cheeks flaming hotter. âI hate you.â
âLiar,â you said gently. âSee you soon, love. Try not to finish without me.â
He hung up the phone and stared at the ceiling, heart racing, body still humming with unmet need.
One hour.
He had sixty minutes to pull himself together⊠or decide whether he even wanted to.
Summary: You were meant to be Jacaerys Velaryonâs futureâhis betrothed, his equal, and the rider who would fly beside him when the war was over. Then the Battle of the Gullet takes him from you, leaving you alone in a war that has only just begun.
Non-Dragon rider reader coming soon ->
Jace had stopped you in the hall the night before, his hand catching your wrist with that familiar urgency. âCome with me,â he begged quietly, voice low so the guards wouldnât hear. âThis is supposed to be the final strike. The advantage we need to force them into surrendering and end this war.â
His plan was reckless, born of love and desperation: to go in his motherâs place without her knowledge, to keep her safe on Dragonstone while he bought one more day for their causeâfor their freedom. And because you were his betrothed, his fellow dragonrider, he wanted you at his side.
That was how you ended up lost in a raging sky full of dragons.
All around you, the air shook with the thunderous beat of hundreds of massive wings, each stroke like a war drum splitting the heavens. Fire roared through the clouds in jagged streaks of orange and gold, while sprays of bright blood painted the sky in violent crimson streaks. The once-peaceful clouds had become a battlefield of smoke and fury, swirling chaotically as dragons wheeled, dove, and clashed in a storm of teeth and talons.
You couldnât tell friend from foe in the madness. Every shadow that burst from the haze could be an allyâor the jaws of death closing in. Shouts and roars blended into one deafening wall of sound, and the metallic tang of blood mixed with the choking bite of smoke that stung your eyes and clawed at your throat.
Beneath you, your own dragon twisted and bucked wildly, muscles rippling like coiled steel as it fought to stay aloft amid the violent currents. Its powerful body rolled sharply, forcing you to grip the reins with white-knuckled desperation, heart hammering as the world spun in a blur of fire, wings, and blood-soaked clouds.
âRovru! SĆvÄs!â you shouted, urging your mount forward, trying to get a clear picture of the situation below. The Gullet was a nightmare of splintering ships and falling bodies. Vermaxâs familiar roar cut through the din somewhere to your left, and your heart leaptâJace was still fighting.
A burst of flame erupted to your right as an enemy dragon roared past, its rider screaming a war cry. Your dragon banked hard, nearly throwing you from the saddle as you narrowly avoided a collision. Another bolt screamed by, grazing your dragonâs tail. The creature shrieked in pain but kept flying, loyal and fierce. You spotted Jace againâhis dark curls whipping in the wind, sword strapped to his back, guiding Vermax into another diving attack on a cluster of galleys.
For a moment, hope flared. They were breaking through. The enemy line was buckling.
Then the sky turned against you.
A volley of scorpion bolts rose like a deadly flock of arrows. One struck Vermaxâs wing with a sickening crack of bone and membrane. The young dragon faltered, roaring in agony. Jacaerys clung to the saddle, trying to steady him, but a second bolt slammed into the dragonâs chest. Blood sprayed across the sky.
âJace!â you screamed, urging your dragon into a desperate dive. âRovru! Faster!â
The wind howled in your ears as you plunged through smoke and flame. An enemy dragon, pale and vicious cut across your path, breathing a jet of green fire that scorched the air. Your own dragon answered with a roar and a counterblast of flame, forcing the attacker to veer away. But the delay cost you precious seconds. You watched in horror as Vermax spiraled downward, wings failing, Jacarey's fighting to keep his seat until the very end.
The impact sent a splash blooming across the waves. You circled frantically above the spot, screaming his name until your throat was raw. For one heartbreaking instant, Jace surfaced, gasping and struggling in the vast sea. Your hope soaredâheâs aliveâbut it shattered just as quickly.
The enemies did not wait.
Three arrows sliced through the chaos with a deadly whistle, striking true without mercy. One buried itself in his chest, the others punching into his shoulder and throat. In a single, shattering instant, the boy you loved was ripped away from you forever. His body jerked violently in the water, eyes wide with shock, before he slipped farther into the sea.
A raw, anguished cry tore from your lungs as you watched his body relax, hollow eyes glazing into your soul.
From the enemy ships below, cruel cheers eruptedâhundreds of voices rising in savage triumph, mocking your pain, celebrating the kill. The sound drifted up through the smoke like poison, fueling the fire already raging inside you.
âDrakarys!â you screamed, your voice cracking and splintering with unbearable fury and grief. The word scraped your throat raw until it burned like you had swallowed flames yourself. Tears blurred your vision, but you didnât care.
Your dragon responded instantly. With an earth-shaking roar that vibrated through your bones, it unleashed a devastating torrent of fire. A roaring river of orange and gold flames surged downward, engulfing the nearest vessel in an inferno. Sails ignited like dry parchment, wood blackened and cracked, and the screams of burning men replaced their earlier cheers.
Yet it felt hollow. Empty.
No matter how many ships you turned to ash, no matter how brightly the sky burned, nothing would bring him back. The boy who had smiled at you only moments ago, whose laughter had once cut through the roar of battle, was gone. All that remained was smoke, fire, and a grief so vast it threatened to swallow you whole.
The flight back to Dragonstone was a blur of exhaustion. When you finally landed, stumbling off your dragonâs back on shaking legs, the change was noticeable the halls had lost their warmth.Â
Rhaenyra stood in the solar, surrounded by the surviving riders, her face a mask of barely contained agony. âWhat have you done?â she whispered at first, then louder, voice cracking with fury and grief.Â
You stepped forward, salt and tears streaking your face, your riding leathers still stained with smoke and blood. The words left your mouth before the queen could even look at you.
This is so vague I love it. The voices you are hearing are real, god is speaking to you. The nation of France needs you. Don your armor, take up arms, lead the French army. This is your destiny, joan. When the flames come for you let them lick your bones and laugh.
Tags/Warnings: MDNI, smut, begging, obsessive behavior, rough sex, overstimulation, size kink, possessiveness, messy/awkward intimacy, bed-shaking, a little whiny Adrian
a/n: hey guys, sorry i fell off of the face of the earth for like two weeks things have been crazy lately, like i met and hung out with Hugh Jackman type crazy (I still can't believe it) and he's the kindest person ever and he's chronically online
ADRIAN ADORES YOUâmaybe a little too much. The kind of adoration that felt overwhelming, smothering in its intensity. Like a puppy with its favorite toyâchewed up, slobbered on, but held tight like theyâd never let it go. Right now, with your glassy eyes staring up at him all wide and hazy, your lips glossy and parted in a pout, he looked completely gone.
âAdrian,â you gasped, trying to wriggle back, but his grip on your ankles only tightened, holding you in place. âItâs too muchââ
âJust a little more, please,â he begged, voice high, desperate, rutting into you with reckless thrusts that bordered on frantic. He was trying, trying to hold himself back, but restraint was never something Adrian was good at.
âI know, I know, Iâm sorry,â he panted, kissing you clumsily, teeth knocking against yours. âJustâgodâjust a little more, yeah?â
Every time your body clenched around him he lost another piece of control, the pressure breaking him down. His hands dug into your thighs, holding you so tightly it almost hurt, his thrusts growing deeper, rougher, knocking soft little cries from your throat.
âOne more round,â he whispered against your skin, begging like he couldnât help himself. He buried his face in your neck, inhaling you like he was addicted. His whole body trembled with the effort of holding on, but he couldnât stopâwouldnât stop. You were a drug, the only thing that made the noise in his head quiet.
When Adrian slipped, he begged. Whined against your mouth, against your throat, promising heâd stop but never meaning it, rutting into you like he needed to disappear inside you.
âCanât hold it back anymore,â he groaned, pressing you down beneath him, his chest heaving against yours. His teeth grazed your ear, your nails dragging down his back as he whimpered, âPlease, justâdonât make me stop.â
Summary: Adrian Chase new obsession grows from owls to: birds. From pigeons to starlings, no feathered creature is safe from his intense study â and you, unable to tell the difference between any of them, quickly find yourself dragged along for the chaos of midnight âstakeouts,â frantic lectures on tail flicks.
Tags/Warning: Adrian Chase x Reader, Bird Obsession, Mild Paranoia / Adrian Being Overly Dramatic, Established Relationship, Fluff
A/N:this is kind of like an alternate part 2 to owl facts
You should have known Adrian hadn't moved on from owls when he showed up at your apartment with a thermos, a backpack, and a pair of binoculars strapped to his chest like some kind of rookie wildlife documentary host.
âBabe,â he said, grinning like the world had finally made sense, âitâs time. Birds. Theyâre everywhere, and nobody notices them. Weâre gonna study them, track them, learn their secrets.â
You blinked at him. ââŠBirds?â
âYes, birds,â he said, gesturing dramatically toward the city skyline. âFrom pigeons to hawks, from robins to⊠uh⊠the ones that look like pigeons but arenât. Theyâre amazing. Intelligent. Silent watchers of the world.â
You nodded slowly. âRight. Amazing.â
You shouldâve known this was going to be a problem. Not because Adrian was suddenly obsessed with birds â you could handle that. The problem was that all birds looked the same to you. The pigeons, the sparrows, the hawks, the owls he suddenly had in his crosshairs â they were all just⊠birds. Fluffy, feathered, flying things. And apparently, that was not enough for Adrian.
By the second morning, he had you standing on your balcony, binoculars around your neck, pointing furiously at a particularly mundane-looking pigeon.
âThat one,â he hissed, âthatâs a European starling. Notice the iridescence on the wings? The way it angles its head to intimidate competitors? Classic territorial behavior. You see that?â
You squinted. ââŠItâs a bird?â
Adrian blinked at you like youâd just confessed you thought the sun was fake. âItâs a bird! Yes. But more than that. That specific bird, that starling, is a marvel of adaptation. Its species migrates thousands of miles ââ
You held up a hand. âWait. How do you know itâs a starling? They all look like⊠birds.â
Adrianâs eyes lit up, and he leaned closer, waving a finger at the bird. âLook at the iridescence on its wings! See how the sunlight hits the feathers just so? Thatâs a starling signature. And notice the slight curve in its beak â perfect for probing crevices for insects. Oh! And the way it tilts its head while walking? Thatâs classic territorial posture. You see that subtle difference from the other pigeon over there? Thatâs advanced avian behavior right there!â
âThat pigeon? The one pooping on the fire escape?â
âYes. That pigeon. Educational opportunity!â
By noon, your kitchen was covered in sticky notes with crudely drawn birds â sparrow, crow, robin, hawk, pigeon #7 â each with Adrianâs handwritten notes like âsuper smart,â âprobably evil,â or âgood for reconnaissance.â You stared at them and sighed.
âYou do realize⊠these all look the same to me, right?â
âWrong!â Adrian shouted, waving a hand like he was on stage at a TED Talk. âThey all have unique personalities! Behavioral differences! Subtle plumage variations! Watch, watch.â
He grabbed you and dragged you out onto the street, pointing at a pigeon waddling past. âNotice how it angles its wing differently from the last one?â
You squinted. ââŠItâs⊠walking?â
âExactly! Subtle! See, youâre learning already.â
Hours passed. You were exhausted. Your binoculars were fogged up. Your stomach growled. And Adrian? Adrian was in peak element, whispering facts to you like you were witnessing a secret rebellion of birds against the city.
Finally, as the sun dipped behind the skyline, Adrian collapsed onto your couch, curls plastered to his forehead. âYouâre a quick learner, you know,â he said, smiling softly.
ââŠI think I just learned that all birds are birds,â you admitted, leaning back, utterly drained.
He laughed, running a hand over yours. âClose enough. Close enough for day one.â
You buried your face in his shoulder, watching as he fussed over his notebook filled with scribbled sketches and observations. It was ridiculous. Chaotic. Perfectly Adrian.
And for some reason, you wouldnât have traded it for all the starlings (or pigeons) in the world.
Summary : After the Butterfly Project ends and the team goes their separate ways, Adrian Chase decides to pick up a new âhobby.â Unfortunately for you, that hobby is obsessing over owls â and heâs wrong about almost every single fact.
Warnings/Tags: Himbos, Fluff, Post-Canon Events ( after Project Butterfly), Incorrect animal facts, Establish Relationship, GN Reader (gender neutral), Black Market "owl eggs" (???), Spoilers for Season 2
A/N: I literally ran to write this after watching Season 2, like omg James gunn is an absolute genius, ( He makes going to film school worth it)
You should have known something was wrong the moment Adrian Chase bought a neon-blue notebook and scrawled TOP SECRET OWL DATA across the front in red Sharpie. It wasnât the strangest thing heâd done â this was the same man who once threatened a dishwasher because it âlooked suspiciousâ â but the intensity with which he slammed the notebook down on your coffee table made you wary.
âProject Butterfly may be over,â he said, sprawled on your couch with his Vigilante mask still on, curls poking out at odd angles, âbut that doesnât mean the world is safe. We canât just⊠pretend everythingâs fine now.â
You frowned. The Butterflies were hard to forget. Tiny, insect-like aliens that burrowed into peopleâs skulls, hijacking their bodies from the inside out, all while smiling and talking like nothing had changed. Their goal had been terrifying and noble all at once: to take over influential humans and steer the planet away from self-destruction, hoping to prevent Earth from collapsing the way their own world had.
And yet, once Adebayo went public, exposing the entire operation to the world, everything seemed to unravel. The team splintered. Jobs were lost. Economos was shuffled off into another corner of Amanda Wallerâs empire, Adebayo burned the bridge with her mother on live television, Harcourt was left wounded and adrift. Everyone scattered in different directions, untethered and aimless. Everyone except Adrian.
Adrian had been there through it all â the betrayals, the firefights, the endless paranoia of wondering who was real and who wasnât. So maybe it wasnât so surprising that his mind had latched onto something new.
âOwls,â he declared, pointing a gloved finger at you as if unveiling a great truth. âTheyâre basically the Butterflies of birds.â
You just stared at him. ââŠOwls?â
âYes, Babe. Think about it. Creepy big eyes, turn their heads all the way around, they only come out at night. Totally hiding something.â
And that was how your life descended into owl hell.
He started with the âfacts.â Sitting at your kitchen counter, halfway through an entire family-sized bag of chips, he announced, âDid you know owls donât have bones? Thatâs how they twist their heads like that. Theyâre basically bird-shaped slinkies.â
You groaned. âAdrian, they do have bones. Thatâs how⊠skeletons work.â
âNuh uhâ he tilted his phone toward you. The search bar read:Â do owls have bones reddit.
By the end of the week, he was knocking on your door at midnight with a duct-taped shoebox in hand. You didnât even bother to hide your groan â because when Adrian had a plan, you knew nothing ever went right.
He grinned at you through the doorway, holding the box aloft like some sacred relic. âOwl eggs,â he whispered proudly, eyes practically glowing behind his mask. âIâm gonna hatch them. Then Iâll have an army. Safer than humans.â
You stared at him, then at the box. ââŠWhere exactly did you get owl eggs, Adrian?â
âThe black market,â he said instantly, like it was the most normal answer in the world. âGuy in a parking lot sold âem to me. Said they were rare and totally legit. Cost me three thousand dollars.â
Your jaw dropped. âThreeâthree thousand?!â
âYeah,â he said, beaming, clearly pleased with his own resourcefulness. âPretty good deal, right? I talked him down from five.â
Panic shot through you as you ripped the duct tape off and opened the box, already dreading what horrors youâd find inside. What you did find made you blink. Hard.
ââŠThese are hard-boiled chicken eggs. From the grocery store.â
Adrian peered inside like maybe youâd missed something. âThey might just be⊠sleeping really hard?â
You pressed the heel of your palm against your forehead, torn between wanting to laugh, cry, or strangle him on the spot. âAdrian, please tell me you didnât really just blow three thousand dollars on someoneâs lunch.â
He tilted his head, thoughtful. âTechnically, I think it was more like brunch.â
At dinner, you tried to set boundaries. âNo owl talk at the table,â you told him firmly, stabbing your pasta with unnecessary force.
He nodded, dead serious. âGot it. Totally respectful.â
Ten minutes later: âSo, owls invented Wi-Fi.â
You nearly dropped your fork. âExcuse me?â
âNo, it makes sense!â he said, leaning in, his curls bouncing as he gestured with his fork. âThe Butterflies took over people by crawling into their brains. Owls hoot at each other across long distances â which is basically encrypted communication. The government stole it. Itâs how the internet started.â
You covered your face with both hands. âI cannot believe Iâm dating a man who thinks owls invented Wi-Fi.â
âHave you ever seen an owl use dial-up?â he shot back triumphantly.
The following Saturday, he dragged you into the woods for âfield research.â You stood shivering, holding a flashlight while Adrian crouched in a bush with binoculars turned completely upside down. He was silent for twenty minutes, then whispered, âDid you know owls hunt using telekinesis?â
You nearly fell over. âThatâs notââ
âThink about it! Have you ever seen an owl just⊠walk up and grab something? No. They just stare until it dies.â He lowered the binoculars dramatically. âTelekinesis. Case closed.â
You laughed so hard you had to sit down, clutching your stomach. Adrian stared at you, confused but delighted, like heâd just solved climate change.
Later that night, back on the couch, he finally pulled his mask off, curls damp with sweat from his âmission.â For the first time all week, he was quiet. You nudged him gently. âYou know all your facts are wrong, right?â
âYeah,â he admitted softly, eyes flicking to yours. âBut itâs fun watching you argue with me about them. AndâŠâ He trailed off, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. âItâs easier to think about owls being evil than⊠Butterflies being real. You know?â
The words hit heavier than you expected. For all his nonsense, it was the closest heâd come to admitting how much the whole thing had shaken him. You reached out and squeezed his hand.
He brightened a little at that, tilting toward you with a mischievous grin. âWanna hear one more?â
You sighed, smiling despite yourself. âGo ahead. Blow my mind.â
âOwls mate for life.â He leaned closer, voice low, conspiratorial. âJust like us.â
You blinked. ââŠAdrian.â
âWhat?â His grin only widened, smug and hopeful all at once. âThatâs a real fact this time.â
You werenât entirely sure it was. But the way he was looking at you â earnest, ridiculous, soft in the corners of his eyes â you decided not to argue.
âFine,â you murmured, resting your head on his shoulder. âOne real fact.â
He beamed, leaning back like heâd just been proven right about everything. âTold you. Iâm basically an owl expert.â
And when his fingers curled gently around yours, you didnât correct him. Not about the owls. Not about anything.
Summary: After one too many, ahem, âincidents,â the Justice Gang slaps Clark Kent with a temporary sex ban. He promises to behaveâuntil one look and a little teasing from you has him breaking every rule he promised to keep.
Warnings/Tags: SMUT, Semi-Public Sex, Mentions of Bodily Fluids, Marking (hickeys, bite marks), Mild Power Play, Discussions of âSex Bansâ in a Professional Setting
A/n: *not proof-read* i had to rewrite this like 5 times, i accidentally deleted it then my computer died, then i restarted and the cycle continued
Youâre not supposed to be doing this.
Not after the last time.
Not after Hawkgirl walked in on Clark with his head buried between your thighs in the Fortress med bayâand let out the kind of blood-curdling scream that probably still echoes across the Arctic.
Yea, It was not your proudest moment.
One second, you were arching off the diagnostic table, breath catching as Clark murmured something filthier than sin against your skin, hair tousled between your legs like he lived thereâ
And the next: a busted comm link hit the floor, and a very traumatized Hawkgirl stood frozen in the doorway. Wings half-unfurled. Eyes wide with horror.
She didnât speak for eight whole seconds.
You and Clark just⊠froze.
He looked up slowly, like a deer in headlights.You grabbed for the nearest med blanket, which did absolutely nothing to preserve your dignityâor the sanctity of the Fortress.
Hawkgirl blinked. Then blinked again. Thenâ
âOH FORÂ FUCKâS SAKEââ
And spun around so fast her mace got stuck in the doorframe.
It only went downhill from there.
An hour later, you and Clark were summoned to what can only be described as the Justice Leagueâs most awkward virtual meeting in recorded history.
Video on.
Full attendance.
Moment ruined.
Clark sat next to you, arms crossed like he was bracing for a military tribunal. You tried to avoid making eye contact with anyone.
Hawkgirl looked like sheâd gazed into the abyss.
Green Lantern looked like he wanted to laugh, cry, and pass out all at once.
And Mr. Terrificâtactical genius, team lead, and current moral authorityâstood in front of the screen with his hands clasped behind his back like this was a high-stakes Pentagon debriefing.
âI want to be extremely clear,â he began, voice sharp enough to cut metal. âWhat happened today was a gross violation of mission protocol.â
You sank lower in your chair. Clark shifted beside you, jaw tight.
âThe med bay,â Mr. Terrific continued, âis a sterile facility. It is not, under any circumstance, to be used as a sex dungeon, a romantic hideaway, orâgod help usâa personal love grotto. Superman.â
Clark winced. âYes, sir.â
âAnd you,â he added, pinning you with the full force of disciplinary disappointment. âWe installed a biometric lock to keep unauthorized personnel out of restricted zones.â
âI⊠I didnât know Clarkâs tongue qualified as biometric,â you muttered.
Green Lantern choked on his own spit.
Clark turned bright red.
Mr. Terrificâs glare was legendary. âThis isnât funny.â
âNo, sir,â Clark agreed quickly. âWeâre very sorry.â
âWe are,â you echoed, trying not to laugh. âDeeply sorry.â
âYouâre both senior-level operatives,â Mr. Terrific said, beginning to pace like a principal prepping detention. âYouâre supposed to set an example. Notâdear godâget caught in the Fortress with your pants down and your boyfriendâs cape on the floor.â
You blinked. âWait. You seen what happened?â
âOh, everyone saw,â Green Lantern muttered. âYou tripped the internal security feed.â
You considered launching yourself into the sun.
Hawkgirl was pinching the bridge of her nose like she could physically erase the memory. âWhat I saw is not something you come back from.â
âEnough,â Mr. Terrific said, raising a hand. âWeâve reviewed the footage, the timestamps, the audio logsâand, of course, the distress scream that activated every emergency comm on site.â
âSo,â Mr. Terrific continued, âin the interest of preserving morale, medical hygiene, and my remaining sanity, Iâm instituting a temporary restriction.â
Then came the sentence. The curse. The collective punishment.
âTemporary. Sex. Ban.â
Silence.
Clarkâs mouth fell open. âIâm sorryâdid you sayâ?â
âYou heard me.â
You turned to Clark, slowly. âHe canât actually do that, right?â
âHeâs the team lead,â Clark whispered, sounding absolutely broken. âI think⊠he technically can.â
Green Lantern raised a hand. âUh, sorryâjust for clarity, are we talking a full ban? Like, no kissing? No second base? Can we define terms?â
Mr. Terrific turned on him with the force of a thousand suns. âYou want me to draft a formal clause list outlining what Superman canât do to his girlfriend?â
âI mean, someone should,â Lantern muttered. âTheyâre a high-libido couple.â
You briefly considered using Clark as a human shield.
Clark looked like he wanted to die.
âDuration?â he asked, voice cracking.
âUntil you both prove you can prioritize the mission,â Mr. Terrific said. âYouâll be monitored for absences. Iâll be reviewing comm logs. Patrol logs. Sensor pings.â
You groaned. âSo weâre grounded.â
âYouâre benched from boning,â Hawkgirl clarified dryly.
Mr. Terrific cleared his throat. âMeeting adjourned.â
The screen blinked dark.
And that was the day the Justice Gang imposed the worldâs most infuriating, sexually repressive ceasefireâ
and started the longest, most torturous dry spell of your entire life. well, technically three days.
Three days.
Thatâs how long Clark lasts.
Three whole days of being good.
Of polite forehead kisses and aching distance. Of pulling his hand away like youâre made of kryptonite every time it drifts too low. Of muttering things like âWe canât,â and âMr. Terrific saidââ with that strained, boy scout grimace like heâs afraid heâs being watched from orbit.
He tries.
He really, really tries.
He throws himself into patrol like heâs punishing himself, keeps his comm logs squeaky clean, even schedules âsupervised sparringâ with Green Lanternâwho sees right through him and says nothing, mercifully.
But you?
Youâre not helping.
Youâre walking around in those soft shorts he likes. Wearing his old Metropolis U sweatshirt and nothing else. Curling up next to him on the couch like you donât know exactly what youâre doing when your bare thigh brushes against his. Pressing slow, sleepy kisses just beneath his jaw when you're ânot even trying anything.â
You bat your eye say you respect the ban.
But youâre lying. And Clark is cracking.
Which is how you end up here.
Pressed flat against the kitchen counter, fingers tangled in his hair, while he grips the edge like itâs the only thing keeping him from falling to his knees.
His voice is low and wrecked. âWe shouldnâtâthis is aâthis is against orders, baby, I canâtââ
You hum, all sweet and innocent, even as your hand slips beneath the waistband of his suit pants. âThen stop me.â
He doesnât.
He canât.
His breath catches hard against your throat as your fingers wrap around himâalready hard, already leaking, already completely undone, and you havenât even gotten the damn suit off yet.
âYouâre evil,â he groans, resting his forehead against your shoulder like itâs the only way to keep from breaking in half. âIâm trying to be goodââ
âYou are good,â you coo, dragging your hand slow along his length. âThink Mr. Terrific would give you a gold star?â
Clark swearsâa low, desperate sound, almost reverent.
And thatâs it. Thatâs the last thread of his self-control snapping.
He scoops you up like you weigh nothing, stumbling backward in a haze of need. Your mouths crash together halfway to the bedroom, his kiss open-mouthed and wild, breath catching like itâs been years, not days, since he last tasted you.
His knees buckle when he hits the bed, and you push him down without mercy, straddling his hips with one smooth motion. He sucks in a sharp gasp as your weight settles over him, hands flying to your waist like a man gripping a lifeline.
You lean in, lips brushing his as your fingers find the edge of his suit.
The zipper hisses down slowly.
âI missed you,â he breathes, voice hoarse, dragging his mouth down your chest, chasing the rhythm of your heartbeat like it's his gravity. âI tried to be goodâI swear, but those picturesââ
You laugh, breathless. âClark⊠those were just selfies.â
âYou were in my sweatshirt,â he growls, like you committed a war crime.
âThatâs not against the rules.â
âIt is,â he snaps, kissing deeper, moving lower, âwhen youâre not wearing anything else.â
Now...
Clark Kent knew he was strongâthe strongest. Faster than light, invulnerable to bullets, capable of hearing a whisper from the other side of the planet. He could carry the weight of the world on his back and still ask if you were okay. Could stop time with his bare hands if he really tried.
And yetâ
The moment you shove him back into the sheets, suit half off, chest heaving, flushed and trembling like a man starved?
Clark Kent knows heâs fucked.
âY-youâre not playing fair,â he tries, voice breaking as you drag your slick heat along the thick length of his cock. You havenât even taken him in yetâjust teasing him, grinding slow and deliberate, letting him feel every pulse of you.
âYou deserve it,â you whisper, watching the way he shudders beneath you.
Maybe he does.
Maybe the ban was there for a reason. Maybe dragging Superman to bed in nothing but his hoodie and a wicked little grin was not on the Leagueâs approved interaction list. But the way he shakes? The way his hips twitch every time you rock forward?
Heâs a man in freefall.
His breath stutters. âYou know I could beg, right?â he murmurs, voice gone dangerously low. âYou think I wonât get on my knees for you?â
You lean forward to press a kiss to the curve of his jaw, feel it flex under your mouth.
âI know you will.â
And thenâfinallyâyou sink down onto him.
Clarkâs entire body locks.
The breath leaves him in one long, broken moan. His hands fly to your hips like he needs to anchor himself, like heâs hanging off the edge of the stratosphere and youâre the only thing keeping him grounded.
âJesusââ he chokes out, head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut. âYouâbaby, you canât justâGodââ
You take him inch by inch, slow and deliberate, letting your walls flutter around every thick stretch of him. Heâs already shaking under you. Eyes glazed. Lips parted. Helpless.
âClark,â you murmur, voice as sweet as honey, âwhat happened to being good?â
He looks up at you through heavy lashesâcheeks flushed, sweat curling at his hairline, voice ragged beyond repair.
âThat was before you got on top of me like that,â he groans. âNow Iâm justâIâm done for, sweetheart.â
His knuckles go white in the sheets.
Heâs tremblingâactually tremblingâlike a live wire, every nerve in his body tuned to you. Overwhelmed by the heat of your body, the way you roll your hips down and lock him in like you were made to ruin him.
You move slow. Purposefully slow. Dragging yourself up until just the tip catches, then sinking down again until heâs buried to the hilt and gasping like itâs killing him.
âYouâre so deep,â you whisper into his ear, syrupy and cruel, âLook how good you fill me up, baby.â
He groansâbreaksâat the sound, his cock throbbing inside you.
âYouâre Superman,â you purr, twirling a damp strand of his hair around your finger before letting it spring free. Your nails rake lightly through his curls, slow and teasing. âYouâll live.â
But Clark is barely holding on.
He looks wrecked beneath youâhis chest flushed, lips swollen, brows furrowed in desperation. His hands clutch at your thighs, guiding you down harder, deeper, until your legs burn and youâre both panting into each otherâs mouths.
The only sounds in the room are the slow, obscene slap of skin, the soft creak of the mattress, and the desperate little moans Clark canât stop from slipping outâlike youâre dragging the air from his lungs with every grind of your hips.
You lean in, teeth grazing his neck before sucking a deep, dark mark below his jawâone that definitely wonât fade by morning. He shudders.
âThought you were gonna behave,â you murmur, dragging your mouth along his neck.
âYeah?â His voice is sandpaper and honey. âThen you probably shouldnâtâveâfuckâridden me like this, baby.â
You grin against his skin.
And you donât stopâslowly, grinding circles that make his thighs twitch under yours. That make him arch and whine,breath hitching every time your hips slam back down and the stretch makes your eyes roll. Itâs filthy. Itâs heaven. Itâsâ
beep. beep. beep.
The sharp alert cuts through the haze.
The "Justice Gang" comm unit pings from the nightstandâblinking red. Urgent. Active threat level.
Clark freezes.
Just for a second.
Then he thrusts up into you, arms wrapping tight around your waistâlike if he holds you close enough, this moment won't end.
You clutch at him, stunned. âClarkââ
âJust a sec,â he pants, rolling his hips again, pulling you closer. âJust⊠a little longerââ
âYou have to answer that,â you gasp, trying to sound firm, but it comes out ruinedâhigh and trembling as he rolls his hips, slow and devastating. âYou said if it was seriousââ
He groans, tortured, and finallyâpulls back just enough to reach blindly toward the nightstand, his other arm braced beside your head. He doesnât stop moving. Just stretches outâflushed and glowing, breath shakyâand fumbles for the blinking comm unit with trembling fingers, his hips still rolling slow and deep like he canât stand the thought of pulling out.
Thereâs a hiss of static. Then:
âSuperman here,â he breathes, voice rough and just a little cracked, like itâs been dragged across gravel. His hair is a mess. His cheeks are red. Thereâs a blooming mark on his neck in the exact shape of your mouth.
âIâll be there in five.â
And then he looks back at you, still buried deep inside, still trembling with restraint, and smirksâsmirks.
âYou better finish what you started,â he murmurs, voice low âBecause the second I get backâŠâ
His hips roll up again.
ââŠthereâs no ban anymore.â
Meanwhile, at Watchtower Command.
When Superman arrives, itâs a problem.
Because heâs not exactly subtle.
His suit is onâbarely. The collar of his undersuit is stretched askew, the zip only half-done up. His capeâs twisted over one shoulder. His curls are still damp with sweat and your fingers, pressed flat to his forehead like he raked both hands through them hard before takeoff. And on the left side of his neckâ
A dark, unmistakable mark.
Right where your mouth had been.
The kicker?
He smells like you.
The second he enters the room, heads turn. Conversation dies. Everyone looks at him.
And then immediately looks away.
Green Lantern raises a brow but says nothing â until he spots the bitemark on Clarkâs throat.
ââŠWas the threat level internal?â
Superman doesnât answer.
He just straightens his shoulders like a man walking to his own trial and silently hands over the datapad he retrieved from orbit, lips pressed in a flat line. His ears are red. His knuckles are still trembling.
From behind the console, Hawkgirl makes a noise like sheâs begging God to strike her down. âOh come onââ
Mr. Terrificâs head turns slowly.
His eyes scan Clark. The disheveled suit. The blooming hickeys. The faint tremor in his left hand. His faintly-glossed lips.
ââŠYouâre late.â
Clark nods once. âTraffic.â
âYou flew here,â Hawkgirl deadpans, crossing her arms.
Clark clears his throat. âWeâre notâuhâdiscussing that.â
Mr. Terrific glances toward the holographic map theyâd been reviewing and pinches the bridge of his nose like heâs physically in pain. âWe said temporary ban.â
âWe agreed it was necessary,â Hawkgirl adds. âNecessary, Clark. For mission focus. For discipline. Forââ She gestures vaguely at his entire very un-mission-ready state. ââthis exact reason.â
Clark tries to look apologetic. He really does.
But thereâs something smug twitching at the corners of his mouth. That little boyish, aw-shucks grin that slips out when he knows heâs been caught but isnât all that sorry.
âIâm still functional,â he offers, way too earnestly.
Guy lets out a low whistle and mutters, âBarely.â
âLook, I got here, didnât I?â Clark says, running a hand through his hair againâand only making it worse. âI didnât skip the mission. I just⊠had to finish something.â
Thereâs a pause.
Then: âI swear to Rao,â Mr. Terrific mutters, turning away.
âOh, you had to finish something?â Hawkgirl repeats, eyebrows climbing. âOr she did?â
Clark doesnât answer. Just kind of⊠smiles into his shoulder and scratches at the back of his neck.
Guy leans in. âOkay, serious question,â he says, nodding toward Clarkâs throat. âDid she brand you? Like, should we call Batman? Thatâs got Batman-level trauma written all over itââ
âI donât need Bruceâs opinion on this,â Clark mumbles.
âOh, Iâm calling him,â Guy says gleefully.
âPlease donât.â
Too late. Hawkgirlâs already pulling up a comm link. âBatman? You might want to see this.â
Clark sighs and looks up at the ceiling like heâs praying for strength.
From across the room, a monitor blinks to life.
Bruceâs voice comes through, flat and judgmental. âWhat did he do this time?â
