This account is inactive and I won't be posting here except to answer remaining asks, follow me at my new account @blank-tato, send any messages, asks, requests, etc there. Thanks!
About Me — 20, she/her, intp, human disaster.
My Links — Fanfic Masterlist | Gif Masterlist | ao3
I write for — The Wheel Of Time, Cruel Intentions (TV), Anora, The White Lotus, True Blood, Teen Wolf, Scream, Marvel, DC, TSITP, HIM and other miscellaneous stuffs ♥︎
could you do an isaiah white x reader where the reader is cam’s friend and isaiah takes a liking to her? maybe he has sex with her in front of cam to show him that he takes what he wants?? i hope that makes sense 🤭🤭🤭
Hey 👋
Thanks so much for the request! I've completed it on my new account @blank-tato. I made some changes since I was already writing something kinda similar so I hope that's okay. Fic linked below, hope you enjoy!
Ok your Lex fics are perf so I had a bit of a specific request! Could we get like softish aftercare with Lex and reader like being really suprised he’s being so soft? Hopefully that makes sense!!
Thank you so much for your request! I have a Lex fic coming out soon (probably today or tomorrow) that has this in it. The aftercare isn't the entire fic but it is in there so I hope that's okay 🙏🏾
I'll add the link to the fic below as soon as I've posted it and it will be posted on my new account @blank-tato.
hi! are you still accepting requests? if so could you do a cameron cade x reader x isaiah white one where the reader is already involved with isaiah and is used to seduce cameron to get him to cheat and sleep with her when he didn’t sleep with elsie. it could be where they’re like sitting in sauna or the living and her and isaiah start to make out with cameron watching and isaiah tells him that if he wants to be the goat he has to get over wanting to hurt people on his way there.
could you also make it that the reader is a famous singer or actress who is cameron’s celeb crush/hall pass.
she could be like isaiah’s girlfriend and that him and elsie have a open relationship.
This was so much fun to write, sorry for the wait! I've completed it and posted it on my new account @blank-tato and on my ao3 Blank-Tae. Both versions are linked below and I really hope you like the fic.
UPDATE: Now posting on @blank-tato, will post all my new stuff and any requests I have remaining from this account on there and on ao3. Thanks!
Hey guys!
For now, I'm taking a break from posting on Tumblr just until I get things sorted with my page being flagged.
Most of my works are crossposted on ao3 (Blank-Tae) and I'll be updating on there still. If I do post on here, it'll just be fluff until I hear back from Tumblr.
I have some requests for smut (Cameron Cade, Isaiah White, John Walker, Lex Luthor, Clark Kent, Saxon Ratliff, Cherry Laine/Daniel Sanderson, etc) and I'll probably post them on ao3 first and reply to the request on here, though I'll make sure to keep you updated.
Sorry for the inconvenience and I hope to be back to posting normally soon 😅
It almost made him laugh, how easy you are to read. So fucking simple that even the faintest hint of praise, you're begging for him with doe eyes.
You'd take anything he gave you, good or bad. If he kissed you, he knows you'd worship the ground he walks on. If he slapped you, he bet you'd fall to your knees begging him to do it again.
“Lex? You're uh…”
Lex follows his gaze to see him looking at the tent in his trousers.
Now it was his turn to be unsettled.
Lex doesn’t even want to entertain the thought that he’d be into the likes of you. His partners were always of a certain calibre, beautiful at the very least if not smart enough to keep up.
And although you are beautiful, he’d never seriously consider it... right?
Or
Sitting in Belle Reve was the last place Lex thought he'd end up. Especially not with the likes of you, a fanboy with no sense of boundaries or personal space. But prison can be lonely and sexually frustrating, so he may as well put all that devotion of yours to good use.
Tags/Warnings: 18+ Explicit Content, Smut, Prison Sex, Anal Sex, Creampie, Oral Sex, Power Bottom!Lex Luthor, Service Top!Reader, Overstimulation, Choking Kink, Degradation, Praise Kink, Self-Deprecation, Reader is a Lex Luthor Fanboy
WC: 2.4k
A/N: This was supposed to be sub!Lex but I made him a power bottom oop. Also slightly off-topic but doesn't he look so cute in orange?
***
To say Lex was mad would be a gross understatement.
He was livid.
All his carefully laid plans, efforts now in vain, cast aside like scraps, while they lord Superman around as the beacon of hope and all things good.
Landing him in Belle Reve with nothing but anger like a fire that refused to die, only waiting to be stoked.
Lying back on the cold concrete slab he was forced to call a bed, hands clasped tight, jaw clenched.
“Psst…”
And to make matters worse, there’s you.
“Psst… Lex…”
An infernal nuisance.
He closes his eyes slowly, deliberately, hoping you’d just leave him alone. For weeks, you’ve been pestering him, asking questions, making comments, acting far too comfortable around a convicted genius.
“You awake?”
Hopping off your bunk, you pad up to him, stopping just short of his bed.
“Lex?”
He exhales through his nose, irritation simmering. “…What,” he mutters at last, eyes still shut, “do you want now?”
“To talk. Can’t sleep.”
“I don’t want—” he starts.
You sit down on his bed, ignoring his annoyed protests. Nudging his legs aside like you were entitled to the space, and turning to him like you were two kids at a sleepover. “Even after all these weeks, I can’t believe I’m here with you. You’re a titan of industry, a mind generations ahead of everyone else. And I remember seeing you on the front page of magazines, doing press conferences on TV, and now you’re here in the flesh.”
And of course, the thing you want to talk about is him.
Hell has nothing on this, he thinks, nothing on the torture of being trapped in this box with his biggest fanboy, armed with admiration and absolutely no sense of self-preservation.
“I hope the judge reconsiders your case. Two hundred and sixty-five years is a tad excessive if you ask me. The dimensional rift barely even left a dent in Metropolis.”
You pat him on the shoulder like you’re his buddy, far too familiar for Lex's liking. “Though on the bright side, we got to meet, right? Seriously, it’s an honour.”
“Are you done?”
“…well, I was thinking maybe,” you say, twiddling your fingers, all coy. He knew exactly what was coming next. You had been pestering him about it since the second week he got here. He'll never understand your audacity.
“Spit it out.”
“Maybe I could sleep next to you tonight. Cuddling has sooo many benefits.”
“Like?” Lex counters, eyebrow raised. He genuinely looks amused for once, if only faintly; one thing he did like about your presence was getting to fuck with you. Like a harmless distraction, a stress toy that he could bully whenever he pleased.
“Uh… it feels good?”
“Get off my bed.”
You pout, another night, another rejection.
“Yes, Lex.”
***
“Catching up on reading?”
Lex remains quiet when you bother him yet again. He rarely placates you, refusing to reward the habit, and yet you persist.
He's not sure if you genuinely can’t read a room or if you’re just too stupid to see how he feels.
Either way, you have the annoyingly persistent and loyal instincts of a golden retriever, forever bounding up to him with optimism and smiles… even when kicked.
You sit next to him without permission yet again. “Is it good?”
He finally cracks one eye open, gaze sliding to you with open disdain. “It’s tolerable,” he says flatly, snapping the book shut just enough to mark his place. “Unlike the company.”
You hesitate, sheepishly rubbing the back of your neck as you back away, “I’m sorry. On the outside, I’d never get the chance to speak to a genius.”
“Really? You had me completely fooled.”
You huff out a shy laugh, flustered now, trying to formulate your thoughts. Lex can see the imbalance as clear as day; he is everything you aren’t. Intelligent, rich, powerful; to Lex, it’s only natural you’d gravitate to him like a moth to a flame. Doesn’t make it any less annoying.
“I’m just saying that I could take advantage of the situation, you know, pick your brain.”
Lex lays his books down with a loud sigh.
“If you’re going to pitch another one of your stupid ideas—”
“No, no, I learned my lesson. I know I’m not that smart, I’ll leave thinking to the thinkers.”
“Good boy,” he replies absentmindedly, reaching for his book. Though out of the corner of his eye, he sees you. Suddenly, all kinds of keyed up and tense.
Fingers curled into your trousers as you look at him with wide eyes, almost pleading.
He takes the book in hand, eyes glossing over the words on the page, so acutely aware of how you’re looking at him.
The air has shifted, something charged, tight, and dangerous.
He flicks to the next page a little too quickly, lifting his eyes off the pages to see you looking back at him.
Hungry.
That's the only way he could describe that look in your eyes.
It almost made him laugh, how easy you are to read. So fucking simple that even the faintest hint of praise, you're begging for him with doe eyes.
You'd take anything he gave you, good or bad. If he kissed you, he knows you'd worship the ground he walks on. If he slapped you, he bet you'd fall to your knees begging him to do it again.
“Lex? You're uh…”
Lex follows his gaze to see him looking at the tent in his trousers.
Now it was his turn to be unsettled.
Lex doesn’t even want to entertain the thought that he’d be into the likes of you. His partners were always of a certain calibre, beautiful at the very least if not smart enough to keep up.
And although you are beautiful, he’d never seriously consider it... right?
You were in prison right next to him for grand larceny, of all things.
Threatening some big-shot bank executives, and stealing from the rich like some kind of Robin Hood, if Robin Hood didn’t give to the poor and only himself.
How could he go from supermodels to this?
“I can help you out,” you offer weakly, “Only if you want.”
He pauses, considering his options. He's seen you working out in the yard, efficient, disciplined, stronger than most of the inmates. You're not bad looking, just painfully earnest. And frightfully dumb.
If he weren't so brilliant, he'd be worried about catching it.
He looks you over and realises this might just be the best he's going to get.
“Fine.”
You don't need to be told twice, practically scrambling off the bed to kneel in front of him.
Lex shifts to the edge of the bed, his strong thighs bracketing you between him.
From the way you're staring up at him, basically panting, it's safe to assume that you like the view.
Lex pulls down his trousers and underwear enough for his cock to flop out. You marvel at him, hungry as ever, as you lean in closer.
This is all you've been wanting for weeks, for him to use you for whatever he desired.
To be the one he comes to when he needs to feel good.
You've never felt so lucky.
Face to face with his hard cock, you reach up tentatively, hand hovering close enough to feel the heat radiating from it.
“Can I?”
“It's what you're down there for, right?” he says as if it's obvious.
“R-right, I…sorry,” you stutter. Licking your lips, you take his cock in your hand, heart racing when it twitches.
Never once breaking eye contact, you lean in and lick from the base of his dick to the top. Slow and sensual like you're making a show of it.
You wrap your lips around the head and sink down, taking as much as you can in your mouth.
You stay consistent, going up and down and hollowing out your cheeks on the way up.
“Is this all you can do?” he scoffs. “Deeper. At this rate, I'll never finish.”
You don't mind it when he’s mean. Lex thinks it might even make you work harder.
So you listen to his demands, taking him so deep it makes you gag. He can tell you're struggling, but the way you're deepthroating him in spite of that was nothing short of sycophantic.
“That's it.”
Blinking up at him through your eyelashes, eyes flickering each time you gag. But you don’t look away. The moment you stop gagging, your eyes are back on him.
It does wonders for his ego.
He doesn't warn you he's about to cum, just letting the climax hit him. A soft groan leaves his lips as he empties his cum down your throat, his grip tightening on your head.
You take it all willingly, swallowing it diligently as you keep your eyes on him—on every twitch, every reaction as he rides out his orgasm.
He peels you off of him, much to your chagrin. You'd be perfectly happy being his cock warmer all night long. Your lips stretched wide around his girth for hours at a time, as you fight to get used to swallowing around him, completely unable to do anything but wait.
Sounds like a dream.
Wiping the excess off your mouth with the back of your hand, you ask, “Can I sleep in your bunk? I wanna be close to you.”
“No.”
He casts his eyes to the floor next to him. “You can sleep there if you wish.”
In a flash, you've gathered your beddings and laid them on the floor.
“Thank you,” you whisper, to which you get Lex rolling over, his back now facing you, in response.
***
Prison was the last place to be soft in, but here you were, all too happy to act as his little assistant. Since he allowed you to suck him off, you had been even more accommodating than usual, if that was even possible, helping him with whatever he needed, running errands, keeping watch, offering favours he never asked for.
Sometimes, sleeping on the floor multiple times a week just to be closer to him.
You didn't need any convincing to fuck him. It was one comment, off-handed, and you were so happy for the opportunity to finally sink your cock inside of him.
“Are you always this loud?” Lex admonishes, as another strangled mewl leaves your lips.
“I'm—I’m sorry. You're just…”
You trail off, eyes fluttering as you sink deeper into his tight hole. “So fucking tight.”
Arms braced around his frame, as you slowly move your hips.
“Been thinking about this for weeks, about you…”
Leaning in slowly, hesitantly, like you might change your mind at the last second.
“No kissing,” he demands, grabbing your face firmly, fingers splayed along your jaw, stopping you just short.
That's one line he wouldn't cross just yet, can't have you getting too comfortable. This is nothing more than stress relief; you needed to know that.
“U-understood.”
You reapply your efforts into fucking him, slowly building up the pace. Each time you rock your hips, a contented sigh leaves Lex’s lips.
Letting go of your face, he relaxes his head against the pillow, eyebrows scrunched up in pleasure as you hit his prostate just right. The sound of your hips colliding in a steady rhythm echoes in the cell.
“Just like that,” he moans, raising his hips to angle you deeper inside of him.
The relief was just what he needed. Something, or rather someone, to take out his frustrations on.
You press your body against his, softly begging against his skin, “Please, please…”
He knew you'd be needy, but he wasn't expecting you to be this needy.
You're whimpering and huffing in his ear; anyone would think you were the one getting fucked.
“Lex, I…” you whine, “So close, so close, fuck…”
“Don’t you dare.”
His voice is final. One wrong move and he might just kill you.
“But Lex—”
“If you stop moving your hips, I’ll never let you touch me again.”
The thought of never being able to have this again motivates you. Holding onto his things, you thrust into him with renewed vigour, hoping you can get him to cum before you do.
“That's it, keep going.”
You moan in response, your head in the clouds. Every time you move, it's like you're being pulled under, his warm hole massaging any sense out of your brain.
Your fingers dig in deeper as you feel yourself getting close again, and you don't know how much longer you can stave it off.
“Want to be good for me, don't you?”
“I do, I do, you know I do.”
You sound like you're on the verge of tears, biting your lip almost hard enough to bleed. All this pent-up energy makes you feel light and tingly, and even the smallest thing would set you off.
“My good little sycophant,” he rasps, briefly cupping your face with his hand. That was enough to push you over the edge.
You rest your head in the crook of his neck, whispering apologies like you know you're bound to disappoint him. It does nothing to save you, as just seconds later, you're finishing, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.
“F-fuck, I really—I’m gonna—”
With a shudder, you collapse against him, filling him up. Rope after rope of cum spilling into him as you cry out for him.
Lex is pissed for a number of reasons. The fact that you came inside of him, early and with the loudest moans he's ever heard.
As you're coming down from a blinding orgasm, body still shivering, you feel a hand wrap around your throat.
“You don't know how to listen, do you?’
You start to sputter out excuse after excuse, but he's not listening. Lex doesn't tolerate excuses; he only wants results.
“Keep moving your hips.”
“W-what? I can't keep going, it's—I’m too sensitive.”
Lex squeezes down on his throat, stopping your breath short. Your head was still a little hazy from the orgasm, so this was making you feel completely weightless.
Everything outside of his hole pulsing around your spent cock and his hand heavy on your throat was completely gone.
“Move.”
Doing as you're told, you start moving, fighting back tears. The pressure as you're milked for all your worth leaves you breathless.
In an act of mercy, he releases your throat as you slowly start to pick up the pace again.
“You're done when I say you're done. Do you understand?”
clark kent with a gf that’s obsesseddd with his accent. like maybe the kansas accent come out when he’s talking to his parents or when he’s ranting about some and not think about how he sounds and she’s just all heart eyesss
The “Clark Kent” Effect
Pairing: Clark Kent x Reader
Summary:
You loved hearing him talk about Smallville.
He’d get all mushy and nostalgic, talking about his Ma’s cooking, his Pa’s awful-but-earnest dad jokes, the first time he accidentally set a fence post on fire with his laser eyes, his Pa coming in with a fire extinguisher like it was just another Tuesday.
It was all so warm, so Clark.
Not to mention the way his accent would slip out thicker the closer you got to Smallville, turning every “darlin” and “y’know” into something that made your heart skip a beat or two.
It’s safe to say, it’s a turn-on. His accent had a hold on you so strong, you don't know what you'd do if he started talking like that in the bedroom.
Or
When Clark takes you home to meet his parents, his accent has your heartbeat all out of sorts.
Tags/Warnings: Fluff, Established Relationship, Meeting the Parents, Clark Kent Being the Cutest, Reader is Smitten, Heart Palpitations
WC: 2.2k
A/N: I'm so sorry that I'm only just getting to this. I really hope I was able to deliver on your request :)
***
This was the first time that Clark was bringing you home to meet his parents, and you were beyond petrified.
The last time you met a partner’s parents, the kitchen ended up on fire, and you were attacked by a wild chicken.
You’ve never recovered.
The whole ride from the airport, you’re tapping your foot against the ground and muttering your practised greetings under your breath. You’re sure you’ve got "It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr and Mrs Kent," and "You have such a lovely home," down pat, but a little extra practice couldn’t hurt.
The way he calls his parents every Sunday, asking about how things are on the farm, about the weather in Smallville, and all the tiny, ordinary details no one else bothers to ask about… it’s so adorable, you could die.
The thought of his parents giving you the stamp of disapproval, well, that’s just too much to bear.
You smooth your hands over your clothes for the fifteenth time, trying to breathe normally. Nervous energy coming off of you in waves. Clark notices, of course, he does, and his fingers slip between yours.
"Hey," he murmurs, that soft Kansas twang coming out stronger when he’s trying to comfort someone. "They’re going to love you. I promise."
"But what if they don’t?"
"Impossible," he says without hesitation, "You’re you."
He gives you a quick peck on the cheek before looking back out at the open road. His words stay with you, and you try to believe them.
If he loves me, they'll love me, right?
You roll down the window, letting the wind rush in, staring out as the city falls away behind you.
The tall buildings and endless traffic lights shrink in the distance, replaced with cornfields that stretch forever and barns with chipped red paint.
You loved hearing him talk about Smallville.
He’d get all mushy and nostalgic, talking about his Ma’s cooking, his Pa’s awful-but-earnest dad jokes, the first time he accidentally set a fence post on fire with his laser eyes, his Pa coming in with a fire extinguisher like it was just another Tuesday.
It was all so warm, so Clark.
Not to mention the way his accent would slip out thicker the closer you got to Smallville, turning every "darlin" and "y’know" into something that made your heart skip a beat or two.
It’s safe to say, it’s a turn-on.
His accent had a hold on you so strong, you don't know what you'd do if he started talking like that in the bedroom.
Snapping out of your Clark daydreams, the hum of the engine cuts off as he parks outside his parents’ house.
The sun hangs high in the sky, warming the white siding and the wraparound porch lined with potted flowers and a gently creaking swing. It's a pretty porch with a neatly painted front door, just how he described it.
"Are you ready?" he asks, and you nod despite the fact that your insides are screaming at you. You’ve never felt this type of nervousness before; it’s like your stomach is trying to collapse in on itself.
Like showing up for a meeting completely unprepared or realising you missed a deadline, but only 10 times worse.
If you kept dwelling on it, you might pass out the moment you set your eyes on his folks.
Swallowing a big gulp of air, you step out of the car.
The gravel crunches beneath your feet, loud enough to make you flinch. Each step toward the porch feels heavier than the last, like invisible weights are tied around your ankles.
Clark circles the car to meet you, his hand finding yours.
"Hey," he murmurs again, thumb brushing your knuckles. "One step at a time. I'm with you no matter what."
He gives your hand a warm kiss, and you feel your nerves cool a little. And just as you reach the first step of the porch, the screen door creaks open.
"Clark!" Martha beams, a bright smile on her face as she pulls him in for a hug before he can even say a word. "We were starting to think you two got lost."
"The flight got a little delayed," Clark says into her shoulder, squeezing her back, "but we made it in one piece."
She finally releases him, brushing a bit of imaginary dust from his jacket the way only a mother can. Then she turns her attention to you, eyes lighting up with something warm and welcoming.
"Jon! They’re here!" she calls over her shoulder.
His father appears a moment later, wiping his hands on an old shop rag, clearly just stepping away from some chore. He gives Clark a firm clap on the back, then looks at you with a curious, kind smile.
And suddenly, the porch feels a lot smaller. Your heart pounds loud enough that you’re sure all three of them can hear it.
Clark’s hand rests on your back, drawing slow, soothing circles that melt tension straight out of your spine. God, he was good at making you relax, almost unfairly good. With that steady warmth behind you, he gently guides you forward.
He introduces you with that proud tone that makes your heart do somersaults, and when it’s your turn, you clear your throat and offer your best, most polite smile.
"It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr and Mrs Kent."
Nailed it.
Martha’s face brightens even more, which you didn’t think was possible.
"The pleasure is all ours. Our Clark is head over heels over you."
Your brain short-circuits for half a second. Clark chokes on air beside you.
"Ma—" he protests weakly, cheeks flushing a very un-Superman shade of pink.
"Is that so?"
Jonathan chuckles under his breath, crossing his arms in a way that’s both amused and approving.
"Well," he says, "she’s not wrong. He mentions you every time he calls."
You nudge him lightly. Oh, how you loved to see him flustered.
"I suppose I can't help it."
As you’re welcomed in, you’re met with the smell of fresh coffee and something sweet drifting from the kitchen.
"You have a lovely home."
Nailed it, again.
"Why, thank you, sweetheart," his mother chimes back.
It really was lovely, distinctly…homey.
You look around the space, pictures of the Kents lining the walls.
Sun-faded snapshots of birthdays, harvests, and Clark in every awkward phase imaginable. The bowl-cut was certainly a choice.
"Tell me the story of how you two met," Martha says, ushering everyone toward the living room like she’s settling in for her favourite show. "We've been dyin' to hear the whole thing."
"It’s so silly," you laugh, toying with your sleeves, and you land on the couch. "I was at the farmer’s market, and I couldn’t reach a box on the top shelf. And I was this close to giving up when someone swooped in and grabbed it for me. Isn’t that right, Clark?"
Clark chuckles softly.
"I couldn't stand by and watch you struggle," he admits, his accent slipping out thick and sweet, making your heart skip a beat. "And then she smiled at me. Prettiest smile, I’ve ever seen and—well, I may’ve gotten distracted and knocked over the entire display."
You grin. "It was a mess. Peaches rolling halfway down the aisle, people staring. It was… chaotic."
Jonathan snorts.
"Sounds about right."
Clark shakes his head, but he’s smiling. "Not my finest moment."
"Maybe not, but it was so cute the way you tried to help me out when no one else would. One of the traits I love most about you."
You look over at him, practically with hearts in your eyes. You remember that day as if it were yesterday, that same summer’s glow settling over the market, the way the light caught in the dust when he hurried toward you.
His panicked apology as you both scrambled to pick up the peaches rolling all over.
And he remembered it too, the laugh you let out when he nearly tripped over one and caught himself at the last second.
"After all the chaos, I forced him to shop with me. We must've walked around that farmer's market for at least an hour, just chatting."
"I was hardly forced. You had my heart within seconds— I didn’t stand a chance. And well, the rest is history.
"How sweet," Martha says, her voice softening as she watches the two of you. She sees the way he looks at you and the way you look at him. The chemistry between you two is so obvious, it could warm the whole room.
***
"You were an adorable baby, Clark," you coo over his baby pictures that his mother insisted on showing.
He’s bright red, smiling through the embarrassment, happy as can be despite the torture.
"Adorable is one word for it," Clark retorts with a little smile.
"Just wait until we get out the home videos," Jonathan adds with a mischievous grin.
"Oh, please don’t," Clark groans, rubbing the back of his neck. "I’m not tryin’ to scare them off."
Your eyes soften at his words, at that shy, boyish fluster he never fully grew out of. It’s so hard not to die on the spot every time he does that, ducking his head and smiling like he can’t help it.
It’s not even like he’s trying to be charming; it just comes out of him naturally.
You know you look smitten, head resting on your hand, elbow propped on your knee, eyes twinkling every time he glances your way. And he notices.
Of course he notices.
The rest of the afternoon, he keeps hearing your heartbeat pick up at random moments, when he says your name, or when he asks if you want more lemonade, or when he sits just a little too close.
You were smiling, no…beaming, so he didn’t say anything. It wasn’t that nervous energy from earlier. You were happy, a full kind of happy.
The kind of happy you get when you’re exactly where you want to be, with exactly who you want to be with.
But he couldn’t quite put his finger on what was flustering you so bad. What was making your heart race like you were running a marathon?
After dinner, with the dishes drying and his parents chatting in the kitchen, he takes you aside onto the porch. The air smells like cut grass and a warm evening.
"What got you all excited?" he asks, leaning against the railing, arms folded, eyes soft. His handsome little smile makes you feel weak in the knees.
"What do you mean?" you play dumb, though you already feel the familiar flutter in your chest.
"Your heartbeat’s been jumpin’ up and down ever since we got here," he says, accent slipping out thicker than honey. "Can’t exactly miss it."
The pitter-patter of your heart speeds up, giving you away, yet again.
Traitor.
He raises a brow. "See? There it is again."
"It’s just…" you start, twiddling your thumbs a little.
"Just…?" he coaxes, stepping closer, all curious.
It wasn't often that he'd see you like this, so flustered and coy. He needed to know what was making you act like this.
"Your accent. It’s so… cute."
You nod, suddenly fascinated by the porch floorboards, swinging a leg at the air.
Clark blinks, then his ears go pink.
"My… accent?"
A soft laugh escapes him, and you wrap your arms around him, fitting yourself against his chest like it’s the most natural place in the world. His arms come around you instantly, holding you tight as the cicadas buzz in the fields.
"It gets stronger here. And it’s… attractive, too attractive. I mean, you’ve been fixin’ to help and blessin’ my heart all day," you tease, sliding a little closer to him. "How did you expect me to react?"
"If I knew you liked it so much," he murmurs, voice low and warm against your hair, "I’d’ve done it a lot sooner."
He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. His thumb strokes the back of your shoulder, and you can feel the steady thump of his heart beneath your cheek, finally matching yours instead of chasing it.
"Careful," you whisper, smiling into his shirt. "If you keep talking like that, I might actually melt. You'll have a puddle instead of a partner."
"Well," he says, resting his chin lightly atop your head, "lucky for you… I’ll be right here to catch you."
"I know you will."
He pulls back to look at you with nothing but love and admiration. He wondered to himself how he ever got so lucky.
"What?" you ask, brows lifting.
"It’s nothing."
His smile only grows wider, making you that much more curious.
"Seriously, is there something on my face?"
"Nope."
"Then why’re you looking at me like that?" You try to sound casual.
"Because I love you."
The smooth rhythm of your heart is fluttering again, the sound loud in both your ears.
"I love you too."
And even though you can’t hear it, his heart is beating just as fast for you.
You take his hand, your fingers slipping into his so perfectly it feels like you’ve done it a thousand times in a thousand lifetimes. With a gentle tug, you lead him back toward the door.
"Now, let’s get inside," you say with a grin, "I need to try this legendary pie you speak of."
As of right now, no. Lowkey not sure if I'd do a good job writing for Steve. But I haven't watched any of season 5 yet, so maybe after seeing his fine self on my screen again, I'll change my mind? But don't hold me to that 😂
“I’m not trying to diagnose you with anything,” you continue, voice strained as his grip loosens just a fraction, “I’m just saying—”
His fangs snap down with a sharp click, the gleam of them catching the dim light. “What are you saying?” he growls, low and dangerous.
“See?” you mutter, somehow keeping your tone level even as adrenaline floods your system. “The defence mechanism. You get hostile whenever we start getting to the heart of things. Opening up isn’t a weakness, Eric.”
You sigh, letting your shoulders slump in feigned defeat, and mentally jot down more notes.
“Like remember, yesterday, when I asked about your maker—”
“Watch it, breather.”
Or
Your father has been making life terrible for vampires in Louisiana with anti-vampire regulations, so Eric decides to take matters into his own hands by kidnapping you.
But the one thing he wasn't counting on was you trying to give him therapy.
Tags/Warnings: Fluff, Therapist!Reader, Kidnapping, Eric being an asshole, Reader being a little shit, Teasing, Threats = Flirting, Stockholm Syndrome (maybe?)
WC: 3.2k
A/N: Just saw Pillion a few days ago and I'm in my Alexander Skarsgård bag once again, so I finally managed to finish this fic after months in my drafts
***
You weren't your father.
That was a sentiment you had been trying to drill into your kidnapper's brain for the past two weeks.
You had been in the basement of Fangtasia for too damn long, eating the mystery slop they gave you out of a dented metal bowl. You didn’t know what Eric Northman’s plan was, but you knew it wasn’t anything good. All you knew was that it was something designed to get at your father, to hit him where it hurt most.
He was some high-ranking governor, pushing strict curfews, registration mandates, and anti-vampire laws. All sorts of hateful rhetoric that got the human population riled up and ready to kill vamps. He was essentially making vampire-kind’s life a living hell here in Louisiana.
So you didn’t blame them for all the anger, not really, because you’d seen the destruction your father’s policies caused, but that had nothing to do with you. All you wanted to do was go home or get a burger from Merlotte’s. If you had to choke down another bowl of whatever the fuck they were feeding you, you’d implode, maybe literally.
You’re playing with the chains you’re attached to, a now common pastime for you, when you hear footsteps descending into the basement. You don’t need to look up to know who it is.
“Eric,” you drawl, sounding tired but not unhappy at his arrival.
He doesn’t answer, just appears right beside you with that terrifying burst of vampire speed, the air shifting before you even register he’s moved.
“Here for another one of our conversations?” you ask dryly, barely glancing up at him. “Want to talk about your abandonment issues, or maybe your authority complex today?”
Within an instant, his hand is wrapped around your throat, cold and unyielding. If this hadn’t been the third time it’d happened today, you might’ve been more scared. As it stood, you just forced yourself to stay calm, knowing full well that if you pushed too far, he’d say fuck it to whatever plan he had for you and snap your neck without hesitation.
“What did I say about talking too much?” He asks coldly.
“I’m not trying to diagnose you with anything,” you continue, voice strained as his grip loosens just a fraction, “I’m just saying—”
His fangs snap down with a sharp click, the gleam of them catching the dim light. “What are you saying?” he growls, low and dangerous.
“See?” you mutter, somehow keeping your tone level even as adrenaline floods your system. “The defence mechanism. You get hostile whenever we start getting to the heart of things. Opening up isn’t a weakness, Eric.”
You sigh, letting your shoulders slump in feigned defeat, and mentally jot down more notes.
“Like remember, yesterday, when I asked about your maker—”
“Watch it, breather.”
He grabs you by the hair, forcing your head upwards so you’re locked in a gaze with eyes that you can’t look away from. Seeing every heartbeat, every fear. You know he can hear your heart racing, but you force yourself to stay steady, holding his gaze without flinching.
“I just want to understand you,” you say carefully, “maybe we can work towards a solution that benefits both of us.”
“Understand me? That’s a tall task,” he replies, his voice low and lethal. “I could keep you here for the rest of your miserable, human life, and you wouldn’t understand me.”
Then, without warning, he releases your hair and tosses you aside, the force sending you skidding across the floor. You hit the wall with a thud, breath knocked out of you, but you force yourself upright, wincing, heart pounding like a drum.
He tilts his head, studying you like a predator measuring prey. “Yet somehow,” he murmurs, “you keep trying. That… is interesting.”
“One of my many flaws,” you chuckle. “Another one being that I’m very curious by nature.”
You shuffle until you’re sitting, facing him, legs pulled close as if to make yourself smaller, but your eyes never leave his.
“Speaking of my curiosity, wanna talk about your childhood? Issues often—”
He bends down and flicks your forehead, which you had to admit hurt like a bitch.
“Ow!”
“Don’t,” he warns.
“I was just trying to get to know you. I normally charge a hefty price, but fine. Be like that.”
You roll your eyes dramatically as he straightens to his full height again.
For a moment, you sit silently, but the word vomit sloshes up before you can stop it, spilling out in a rush.
“It’s just I’ve been down here for over a week, and I have no idea what you want to do to me. Glamour me into killing my father? Make me your living blood bag? Or maybe you want to kill me, then display me for the whole town to see?”
You’re half joking, but you knew Eric was perfectly capable of any and all of what you just said.
“What fun little ideas, Doctor,” he muses, brushing his fingers along your collarbone, “You have a wild imagination.”
“What can I say? I’ve had a lot of time to think.” You look around the dark basement that I had become well acquainted with. “Thank you for that, by the way.”
He turns your face back to him, with his cold, dead hand, “I’m going to turn you.”
“...huh?”
***
It’s been at least three days, you think, since he threatened to turn you into a vampire. The anxiety was killing you.
Sure, you knew being a vampire had its perks. The strength, speed, and immortal life, but you also happened to like being able to see the sun and wanted to be able to come home for Thanksgiving without getting a stake in the chest.
Though he hadn’t made any moves. He had barely touched you. He’d gotten wise to your tactics; your words were your greatest weapon. If he let you talk for long enough… he might even start to enjoy the challenge and even worse, your company.
So he stopped talking to you entirely, sending Ginger instead to bring food and water.
The familiar footsteps echo on the stairs, and your head snaps toward the sound.
“Ugh, you again. I was hoping Pam would give me a visit,” you quip. Though if you were being honest, you were not unhappy to see him.
He had become a constant in your life… a scary, mean, constant who likes to threaten you for fun.
The irony isn’t lost on you: a therapist falling to the whims of a vampire. Quite possibly the strangest, most dysfunctional case of Stockholm syndrome ever recorded. If anyone from your ethics board could see you now, they’d die of shock long before Eric ever touched them.
But it isn’t that.
You aren’t falling for him, not romantically, not in the way he likes to imply with that smirk that makes your skin crawl and burn at the same time.
And it isn’t submission, either. Not truly.
You just… like talking to him.
It’s good conversation. Sharp, sometimes philosophical, unexpectedly honest.
At the start of the week, you asked him, “Do you miss being human?”
And he replied, “I miss the illusion of time.”
You remember blinking at him, thrown completely off-balance. You expected arrogance, a joke, something smug and cutting. Instead, you got… truth. Or at least something that felt like it.
He’d added, “Humans live like time is scarce. Every choice feels urgent. Every emotion feels catastrophic. You burn bright because you believe you’ll burn out.”
A sharp breath, the faintest flicker of something like grief passing through his eyes.
“When you can't die, you stop living that way.”
It felt for the first time in a long time like something real. Day in and day out, you sit across from patients.
Some who are lying to you, to their friends, their parents, themselves.
But, Eric…
He had surprised you, that's all.
Talking with him was something to keep your mind active, even if he’s the one who locked you in this gilded cage to begin with.
Somehow, despite his cruelty, despite all the threats dripping from his tongue like venom, he listens. More than anyone in your life has in a while.
And that’s the part that terrifies you most.
Because when he asks you a question back, when his eyes soften with something dangerously close to respect, you almost forget for a second that he’s a monster.
You almost forget he put you here.
You almost forget you’re supposed to hate him.
Keyword: almost.
Eric steps closer, slow enough that you feel every inch of space he steals from you.
“The day Pam visits you is the day you die.”
Back to reality.
You nod slowly, you knew that to be true. You remembered overhearing her say it once, completely unapologetic and borderline nonchalant, “Let them die already.” Then, with a cruel chuckle, “Mail their severed head to the governor.”
Her penchant for murder scared the fuck out of you, as it should.
“Turning me won’t do anything.”
He tilts his head mockingly, blue eyes glinting. “Is that right?”
“My father… he’s a cruel man. Stuck in his ways, obsessed with what he thinks is right. Turning me won’t change his mind.”
Your gaze drifts past him, unfocused, pulled into memories you’ve spent your whole life trying to outrun. The nights when the shouting shook the walls, his disappointment loud enough for the damn neighbours to hear. His voice telling you what your life would be, as if it were already carved in stone.
It was always supposed to be law, politics, legacy, anything but what you wanted.
The back and forth with him was constant; you can still remember how your mother’s eyes always slid away when you begged for backup. All those speeches about becoming a psychiatrist, “not being the right path” for you. He was stubborn as a mule, there's no changing that.
“I’m not trying to change his mind,” Eric says, voice low, dangerous. “I’m showing him what he’s dealing with by taking something precious to him and making it mine…”
“He’ll kill me,” you whisper, dread tightening your chest.
Eric’s lips curl into a smirk, sharp and cruel. “Does it look like I care?”
“You’d… turn me into a vampire for what? Revenge?” you snap, fear giving way to anger. “Sounds like textbook obsession. You’re letting your anger do the thinking for you, Eric.”
“No,” he replies, stepping closer until his breath ghosts over your skin. “This isn’t anger. This is strategy.”
“Some fucking strategy… I become a vampire, I die screaming, my father goes ballistic, and the lives of vampires across Louisiana get even worse.”
“There are other ways for me to make a point,” he says softly, but the threat in his voice lingers like a blade at your throat.
His eyes drop to your lips, and you fight the urge to scoff, lest your throat get ripped out.
“How? You’ll glamour me to fall in love with you?” you say, your voice full of disbelief.
“As if I’d need to glamour you,” Eric says, his smirk widening, confidence radiating from him like heat.
You hate his look. You hate how it makes you feel, you can feel your skin getting hot under his gaze, hot enough to burn.
He taps your cheek lightly and kisses your forehead, though it's void of any real affection. “Sleep well, you'll need it.”
And although you don't say it out loud, your grumpy, little face is screaming, “fuck you”.
And judging from the little laugh he lets out when he sees your expression, Eric receives the message loud and clear.
***
This shit was getting tiring.
You could barely sleep during the day, and Eric wouldn't let you sleep at night.
Poking and prodding at your psyche, trying to make your crack from your practised answers.
Currently, you're craning your neck up at him, watching as he walks around you, lording his superiority over you.
At this point, it's a nightly routine. When he's not running around doing whatever the fuck vampires do, he's down here bothering you. Making sure to sprinkle in that charm that almost makes you like him.
It's infuriating, feeling like nothing more than a pawn in his game or more accurately, a little puppy he decided to dognap for fun.
“I’m not a bigot, okay? I have vampire clients. Adjusting to the hunger can be tough. I’ve heard it all, from stealing IV bags from hospitals to draining their own cat out of desperation,” you explain.
“Are you allowed to be telling me such things? What about client–doctor privilege?” Eric asks, as he looks down at you, eyes glinting in the dim light.
“I’d say this is a special circumstance…” you reply, raising your hand, the jingle of chains accentuating your point.
“Naughty psychiatrist,” he murmurs, before tilting your head to the side to reveal your neck.
Your heart thumps harder in your chest as he looks at his target. You know he can hear it, he's revelling in it, you bet. There's nothing you can do to stop it, though.
“N–Northman—”
“You’re not curious? You have vampire clients, so you've heard it all… the taste, the pull, the power.”
He pulls you up onto your feet, your hands flying to hold onto his shirt before you fall.
“I’ve heard about the pain too and I happen to like being able to take a stroll in the sun without becoming one with the ground.”
“Then are you curious about other things?” he asks, voice level, but it still makes you gulp. The air’s shifted, something’s different. More… heated.
“What other things?” you murmur. You almost wish you hadn’t asked. There’s a very high chance that you wouldn’t like the answer.
“What vampires are capable of? The pleasure they can give.”
You look down, but it does little to calm you. Everything is him; you’re completely surrounded by his touch, his smell. Even though you’re not looking at him, it’s like you can feel his eyes looking through you, like all your thoughts are completely transparent.
“Overrated. I bet they leave their partners unsatisfied and drained of blood.”
“For some, maybe, but my partners never leave unsatisfied.”
His eyes sweep over your now shaking form, “And you look like you haven’t been satisfied in a while.”
“Well, you have had me locked up here for weeks. Can’t exactly hook up with anyone down here.”
“I can tell it’s been longer than that,” he scoffs, “All that pent-up frustration from drowning yourself in your job, wearing you thin even before you got here.” His finger slides down the curve of your neck, the pulsing of blood under your skin giving you away, “The loneliness, but I have a feeling you’ve been dealing with that most of your life. Am I close?”
“Bastard,” you curse at him as you squeeze your eyes shut, his chuckle warming the shell of your ear.
“See? You’re not the only one who can play therapist.”
Swallowing a gulp of air, you look back up at him, eyes glowering with frustration.
“What are we doing, Eric? Is this payback for me talking too much? Whatever it is, you won’t break me.”
“I’m not trying to break you. If I wanted that, I would have handed you off to Pam. I’m just… curious.”
His finger swipes your bottom lip, and you find yourself feeling weightless. You’re sure he isn’t glamoring you, but you still feel like he’s got you under his spell.
“Curious?”
“Yes, curious. And clearly so are you.”
He presses in further, your back now right against the support beam, short, shallow breaths escaping your body as you fail yet again to calm yourself.
“Calm down, I’m not going to eat you… yet.”
You can’t help the jitters; he’s got you on edge, more on edge than he has in days. The threat of him turning you, followed up by not touching you, then this? You’re a powder keg waiting to blow.
You try to bite your lip, but his thumb stops you, pressing itself between your lips.
He tuts at you like a disapproving teacher, its mocking nature stirring an embarrassing pit in your stomach. Why did that do something to you?
“Stay still. You wouldn’t want your lip to bleed, would you?” His voice dips, almost amused. “I might not be able to resist.”
With his free hand, he tugs the collar of your shirt aside, exposing your neck to him. Your heartbeat doubled, if not tripled, in sleep.
“I thought—Wait, please—I can’t—”
You fumble over your words; you weren’t ready to be a vampire. You’d never be ready. You liked the simple comforts in life, like eating your weight in food at Merlotte’s or the feeling of the sun hitting your face through your curtains.
You liked being human.
Your panicked protests are suddenly silenced when he presses his thumb further into your mouth, holding your tongue down.
“Much better. That mouth of yours always seems to get you into trouble.”
He wastes no time in leaning in toward your neck. You brace yourself for the sharp puncture of his fangs, but instead you’re met with the cool press of his lips, a gesture that makes your heart leap in your chest.
He’s very deliberate. Giving you just enough to keep you wanting more, kissing where it makes you tremble the most, just to move away a second later.
It sends a startled sound out of you, muffled further by his finger still resting against your mouth to keep you quiet.
“Er…ic…” you manage, your voice unsteady as he continues, making your knees weak as you fall deeper and deeper. It’s almost like you can’t remember what you were so mad about.
He drags his fangs over your skin in response, your hands flying to furl themselves in his shirt. You can’t think straight, can’t breathe.
But something inside of you is begging for it. Begging him to just bite down and—
He pulls back, and most of the fight in you has evaporated. Replaced with a dazed look and glossed-over eyes. You hate to say it, but you’re disappointed… in yourself mostly. All it took was a few kisses, and you were ready to give him your blood.
“Open up.”
You open your mouth around his finger, and he pulls it out, wiping your saliva on your own shirt, just to be an asshole.
“See how good it could be?”
You’re speechless.
No therapy speak here, no deflections to hide behind, no clever way to prod into his past trauma or bring up his issues to turn the spotlight back on him. He has you beat this time.
“Cheer up,” he says lightly, patting your cheek as if the situation were nothing. “Tomorrow night, you become a vampire.”
You blink at him, your mind replaying the words over and over.
“...what?”
He says nothing more, just turns away, leaving you frozen and confused, the weight of his declaration settling over you like a closing door.
Eric Northman remains a mystery to you, but apparently, you have an eternity to figure him out… unless your father kills you first.
“Will you kiss me?” he asks, ignoring your harsh words. If he could kiss you, he could forget. The pain would melt away and he could lose himself in your touch.
“Ia umoliaiu tebia potselovat menia (I’m begging you to kiss me).”
When you don't respond, he pulls off his sunglasses and lowers himself onto his knees, cheek pressed against your leg like a dog begging for scraps.
“I get on my knees, see?” he says, pitifully, looking up at you as if you were his very reason for being.
He was so easy.
Or
You like to make Vanya sad and spend his money. He likes to make you happy.
Tags/Warnings: Angst, Toxic Relationship, Mean!Reader, Sad!Vanya, Verbal Degradation, Kneeling, Begging, Vanya's a Pretty Crier, don't save him - he's right where he wants to be
WC: 1.0k
A/N: Trying to clear out my drafts, found this and finished it. The reader is normally going through it in my Vanya fics so I thought I'd swap it around. Enjoy!
***
You loved Vanya's lips.
The way he kisses.
Especially when he's sorry.
So damn desperate, so needy. Giving you sloppy kisses, eyes half-lidded and distraught when you pull away.
You like to make him sad.
Love to watch as his tears flow from his eyes, kissing all over your face and neck, saying, “Prostite (I'm sorry)” over and over.
Knuckles white as he grips the fabric of your shirt, needing to cling to you.
Head resting on your chest as he sobs, practically begging for your forgiveness.
If you could keep him crying… you would.
Vanya wasn’t hard to figure out. He was impulsive, reckless with his heart, desperate for validation.
You had a game to play, had to stay just out of reach, to make him want you more than you want him.
To prod at his insecurities, the ones he parties to forget about, while offering yourself as the only cure.
Before he knew it, he couldn’t live without you.
***
“Solnyshko! (Sunshine).”
Vanya’s trudging around the mansion in search of you. Sunglasses on, hangover making his head ring like a church bell, his boxers hung low on his waist, and his robe hanging open.
He missed you the moment he woke up and you weren’t beside him, the sheets cold where your warmth had been. You had lulled him to sleep last night, whispering everything he wanted to hear, soft words sinking into his dreams and keeping the nightmares at bay.
“Kroshka, gde ty? (Baby, where are you?),” Vanya whines.
These days he finds it hard to be without you. You soothe him, busy his mind, more than the drugs and alcohol ever could.
He finds you in the kitchen, the morning light spilling in through the windows. You’re not wearing headphones, so it’s clear you could hear him calling.
“There you are,” he breathes in relief, like you’d been gone for days instead of minutes. “I was calling you.”
You stand with your back to him, deliberately distant, not even bothering to turn around as you scroll through your phone.
Vanya steps closer, desperate for your warmth, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing himself against you. His lips find the nape of your neck, soft, needy kisses trailing up your skin.
“Fuck, you’re needy,” you sneer, cold and sharp, unwrapping his arms from around you like they’re nothing more than an inconvenience.
“Please… please, not today. I can’t—” His voice cracks, unable to finish his sentences in panic.
Every once in a while, you’d flip on a dime like this, acting as if you wanted nothing to do with him. It was cruel, and he never understood why. Making him grovel and suffer even when he hadn’t done anything. Vanya didn’t understand, all he knew is that he’d do anything to make it stop.
“Stop clinging to me like I'm your lifeline. It’s not my fault your parents don’t love you," you snap. The words left your mouth like they were nothing, and to you, they were. But to him, they were everything, and that's all that mattered.
He shrinks a little, but it only makes him want you more. Makes him want to work for your affection which is surprising considering he doesn't like to work for anything.
He was used to everything and anything being within reach. That's probably why he likes you so much.
You didn't just tell him no, you told him no and made him apologise for asking.
“Will you kiss me?” he asks, ignoring your harsh words. If he could kiss you, he could forget. The pain would melt away and he could lose himself in your touch.
“Ia umoliaiu tebia potselovat menia (I’m begging you to kiss me).”
When you don't respond, he pulls off his sunglasses and lowers himself onto his knees, cheek pressed against your leg like a dog begging for scraps.
“I get on my knees, see?” he says, pitifully, looking up at you as if you were his very reason for being.
He was so easy.
“Your credit card. I want to go shopping," you say, almost unimpressed with him.
He pats his pockets, fishing out his wallet and handing it to you without hesitation, hands shaking slightly.
The smile you give him is nothing short of angelic, at least in his eyes. A blessing, if his credit card was a sacrifice, then it’s considered a token of his devotion.
He's never met anyone like you, no one that can put him in his place and make him like it. He'd be damned if he let you go.
Leaning down, you place a gentle hand beneath his chin, crouching so that you are face to face with him. He was upset, so his cheeks were a pretty shade of pink, as if he had been holding his breath, fighting back the tears but too frustrated to let them fall.
“Thank you, Vanya,” you drawl, the tingle of your breath against his ear making his eyes flutter shut in response.
Your fingers leave his chin and snake their way into his hair. It's no surprise that he lets out a shaky moan the moment you grip the strands hard enough to sting.
He likes having his hair pulled.
You tug him forward, his hands falling onto your knees to keep him upright and give him what he's been waiting for.
A kiss.
As your lips crash into one another, he melts against you, kissing you like he’s running out of time. Each kiss accompanied by a moan, each one more pathetic than the last.
His hands slide up your thighs and get to your waist before the two of you break apart for air.
The sight you see is a dream.
Lips red and parted, shallow breaths racking his whole body.
And the pièce de résistance, those pretty, sad little eyes of his. Like all he wanted was for you to kiss it all better.
“Nikogda ne pokiday menya (Never leave me),” he says before dramatically wrapping his arms around your waist, his face finding purchase in the crook of your neck.
As his soft hair tickles your cheek, and you consider that you're holding the Zakharov fortune in your arms, you say, “Keep me happy and I won't go anywhere.”
The video was meant for the Reader and Eric's pleasure alone...
So when they find Jason perving out with it...
They punish him by having him be a good boy and fuck Reader's pussy and suck her tits, while Eric pounds and uses his ass, sandwiching Jason between them, till his balls are milked dry and his ass is full of Eric's seed...
What do you think? If you don't do mxm, I apologize and will send a different threesome ending as soon as I can.
It's your request so your wish is my command and I love your ideas 😌
Hopefully I'll be able to get this out soon but my writing process is a bit of a nightmare rn with exams and stuff 🤞
Have you seen the first episode, in which Jason Stackhouse, the boy that God gave a penis and a brain, and only enough blood to run one of 'em, watches a video of the girl he was currently having sex with having sex with a vampire?
Any interest in writing a one-shot in which Jason finds and is soon jerking off to a videotape OR dvd recording of the girl he's been horny for for ages, the Reader, having hot, filthy sex with the vampire, Eric Northman, another person he's had the occasional sex dream about, having fallen asleep once in a church, and soon had a hornball dream of himself and Eric getting frisky? ;)
Hope you like this idea, sorry if you don't.
I've watched up until season 7 episode 2 and I'll finish it eventually, I was just mad as hell about a certain thing that happened to one of my favourite characters in the first 5 minutes of episode 1.
Okay, rant over. I absolutely love this idea and I can totally do this request! I have only one question: threesome at the end or nah?
I need that Jimmy Olsen x avoidant attachment! fem! reader 18+ content so bad ao3 is a desert (also my only thoughts to contribute are the song Jimmy Jimmy by Madonna and the concept of the reader being a really competent writer for the culture section of the paper) ty my life is in your hands 🫡
why do fools fall in love with fools like you?
Pairing: Jimmy Olsen x Reader
Summary:
“What are you doing?” he asks, leaning just close enough that you can see the blue hue of his eyes.
You clear your throat, tearing your attention away from the empty Word doc with nothing but ‘asfgjhhnk’ written on it.
“The real question is what are you doing, Olsen?”
He blinks, thrown off by your accusatory tone. “What do you mean?”
“Yesterday, you said that I’m…” You gesture vaguely, searching for the right word.
“…amazing at what I do or whatever. It’s weird.”
“You’re disturbed because I complimented you?” he asks, eyebrows lifting.
“…perhaps.”
“We’re friends with benefits,” he says, shrugging like the world is simple. “Keyword being friends. Friends give each other compliments.”
“You give me too many.”
He smirks, pen still tucked between his lips, full of boyish charm.“So now there’s a limit?”
“You know what I mean.”
Or
You and Jimmy are friends with benefits and you like this setup; it works. But when things start getting too real for you, you start pulling away from him. But Jimmy doesn't give up easy, and is determined to get to the bottom of things.
Tags/Warnings: 18+ Explicit Content, Smut, Vaginal Sex, Rooftop Sex, Fluff, Jealousy, Friends to Lovers, Love Confessions, Freckle Appreciation, Friends with Benefits, Clois mentioned, Jimmy brings you food, avoidant attachment girlies unite
WC: 6.8k
A/N: I'm sorry this took absolutely forever; it's been bouncing around my drafts for months! I really hope you like it and that I was able to fulfil the request 🥹 Oh shit, I just realised this is my 100th fanfic. Happy 100!
***
You love love, and you want a real relationship. Then they say those damned words…
“I really like you”, or “I want us to take the next step”, or your personal least favourite, “Wanna meet my parents?”
It stings every time.
Sometimes it’s because you’re just not feeling it, but other times it’s because you are. It’s this sharp, aching vulnerability, this need to run and hide and never speak to them again, even though you don’t really want to. Distance feels safer. Distance can’t hurt you.
But it’s not like that with Jimmy Olsen. Neither of you will let it be.
Jimmy is always around, passing by your desk with a smile, a joke, a cup of coffee, and nothing but good intentions. But you’ve never had to worry about any spontaneous confessions. With him, it was… casual.
He swings by your desk now, leaning just enough to cast a shadow across your notes.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, Olsen?” you beam up at him.
“Just curious about what you're typing about.”
“Metropolis has a new immersive art exhibit opening at the Centennial Museum,” you say, fingers still hovering above the keyboard.
You narrow your eyes at him. Your gut was telling you he needed something, a last-minute rescue or impromptu favour.
“Spit it out.”
“I was just wondering if you'd help me with this article I’m writing. Only if you have time, I know you're busy," Jimmy asks, puppy dog eyes and all.
The thought balances precariously, like water shifting between two halves of a cracked glass. On the one hand, you already had a full schedule and a deadline breathing down your neck.
And on the other hand, that would mean he owes you, and a Jimmy in debt is a very hardworking Jimmy. Seriously, the things he can do with his hands.
“Well, you’re my favourite photojournalist, so… I'll do it."
His dorky smile lights up his face, bright as a camera flash in a dark room.
"You're a lifesaver."
“Hey, Jimmy!” a girl calls as she passes by, waving a little too eagerly. He shoots her that signature coy smile, the one that drives the ladies wild.
You glance between them and then back at him. “I have a feeling you’re her favourite photojournalist too.”
“Comes with the job,” he shoots back, turning and giving her a wave. There's a crash in the background, maybe the sound of a body hitting the floor, but you don't pay too much attention to it.
"I missed you this weekend," Jimmy says, with a sweet smile. And we’re not just talking vanilla ice-cream sweet, we’re talking three scoops of double fudge and Oreos sweet.
The kind that’ll have you running to your dentist.
There was something different about the way he was speaking to you now. The way he leaned in that fraction closer, almost like he was telling you a secret, holding eye contact like there's nowhere else he'd rather be.
Is he casting a spell on you?
And most importantly, his words.
He missed you.
And the fact that he missed you, that really did make you want to run.
“Oh.”
You pout your lips, twiddling a random pen in your fingers, aiming to be the picture of nonchalance. Hoping that your little act is so good that if they looked ‘nonchalant’ up in the dictionary, there'd be a picture of your beautiful face right there.
“Yeah, I uh, saw a puppy parade and thought of you.”
You needed Jimmy to stop talking this instant. This wasn't casual; this was the sort of soft-launching bullshit guys normally hit you with days before professing their love for you.
“A puppy parade?”
He whips out his camera and shows you a picture.
“Specifically this one.”
The puppy was undeniably adorable, it's a puppy, how can it not be? Tiny, fluffy, and perched in a little red wagon like it owned the street, looking like it’s so above it all and far too important to actually walk, but hitting the crowd with a devastatingly cute side-eye.
It’s actually quite spot on.
“Which girl took you to a puppy parade?” You deflect smoothly, or at least you hope so, get him thinking about other girls, that’s the ticket. The world's biggest emotional airbag.
But his eyebrows shoot up like you’ve asked something ridiculous.
“No girl,” he says, shaking his head, a laugh curling at the edges of his voice. “I was walking by and decided to take some shots. Plus, I thought maybe the photo could go with your article on local community events that you said you were writing.”
Of course, he remembered that. You’d mentioned it in passing, half buried under coffee cups and copy edits, but he caught it anyway.
“That’s… thoughtful,” you manage, trying not to sound like you swallowed a typewriter.
His grin widens, bright and earnest and completely unfair.
“Hey, if it helps your piece stand out, I’m happy.”
Right. Totally professional. You are absolutely not melting into the carpet.
“Sure,” you say, clearing your throat. “Community events. Puppy parade. Hard-hitting journalism.”
He snorts as he cycles through more photos.
“Can’t say the Daily Planet doesn’t cover the big stuff,” he says.
You laugh along, because honestly, the absurdity of a front-page puppy parade is objectively hilarious. But somewhere in the back of your mind, a quiet, traitorous part of you exhales in relief. You can’t help but feel glad he wasn’t on a date.
Not that you care.
Obviously not.
Not giving a shit is like the number one rule of not getting attached.
And yet, here you are, feeling weirdly happy because Jimmy Olsen spent his Saturday photographing puppies alone.
“You really had nothing better to do on a Saturday afternoon than take pictures of puppies for me?”
He looks up from his phone, that earnest smile blooming again, and the floor tilts a little.
“Maybe I just like taking pictures of things that make people smile. Especially certain journalists I know.”
Oh.
Oh great.
“Well,” you breathe out, back to flipping your pen around, “I’m sure Clark will love them.”
***
Things have been weird since puppy-gate.
You and Jimmy have always been friends, then you became friends-with-benefits…
But this feels weirdly more intimate than the sex.
Like the way he remembers tiny details about your life, or looks at you like he’s trying to read your mind, it’s like you’re encroaching on boyfriend-girlfriend territory…
You’re crouched next to Lois’s desk like a raccoon with a press pass, sneaking glances over the cubicle wall.
“Any explanation as to why you’re down here?” Lois asks dryly, not even looking up from her screen. She’s far too used to your shenanigans by now.
“No.”
“Any plans on getting work done today?” she adds.
“I will…” you mutter, not moving an inch.
Because across the room is Riley from the Lifestyle desk, currently twirling her hair like she’s auditioning for a shampoo commercial and fluttering her eyelashes at him. It made you some kind of sick.
Lois finally glances over, eyes narrowing slightly as she follows your line of sight.
“Oh,” she says, in that voice that means she has totally figured you out.
“Mm-hmm. Of course.”
You refuse to react. You stay stone-faced and completely professional.
Totally not staring daggers at Riley, who is now laughing at something Jimmy said and touching his arm, shamelessly.
Lois tilts her head at your "professional" expression.
“Just checking… are we pretending we’re fine? Or are we entering the meltdown portion of the afternoon?”
“I’m fine,” you hiss, still hunched behind her desk like a cryptid, “Totally fine. Look at me. I’m the picture of fine.”
Lois raises a brow.
“You’re crouching like you’re about to steal a pie cooling on a windowsill.”
You ignore her, eyes locked on Jimmy, whose smile looks a little too bright for your sanity.
Lois waits a beat, then adds, “You know, for someone who doesn’t care, you’re putting in Olympic-level effort.”
You inhale, slow and painful.
“I don’t care,” you repeat. “Not giving a shit is the number one rule.”
“Uh-huh,” Lois says. “And yet here you are. Crouched. Obsessed. Sweating.”
“I’m not sweating. You’re sweating,” you shoot back immediately, regardless of whether it's true.
Across the room, Jimmy laughs at something Riley says, and your stomach turns into a whirlpool. Twisting and turning, you might really be sick.
Lois leans back in her chair, smirking like a cat watching you chase a laser pointer.
“You could always just talk to him, you know.”
“Or I could die. Those are the options.”
“Asking him on an actual date seems like an option too.”
“Says you, Lois ‘I don’t like Clark Kent’ Lane.” You point at her accusingly. “You’ve been making eyes at each other for months, so don’t throw rocks from your glass house.”
Lois freezes for exactly half a second, like you’ve hit a nerve dead-centre. Then she narrows her eyes, lips twitching into the most dangerous little smirk.
“Oh so we’re playing that game today.”
You shrug, trying for casual and landing somewhere near unhinged.
“Just keeping it honest.”
“Oh please,” Lois says, flipping a page on her clipboard dramatically, “Clark and I have a working relationship built on mutual respect and professional admiration.”
“Mhm,” you reply. “And heavy sexual tension.”
Lois’s pen slips from her hand and clatters to the desk.
She shoots you a death glare sharp enough to shear steel.
“Well, if you must know, we've been seeing each other for the past few months, so you need to focus on your own mess before you come for mine.”
Your jaw drops as you blink at her really slowly.
“You've been dating for months, and you didn't tell me?”
“We haven’t put a label on it—” she cuts herself off, which is a shame because things were just getting good.
“Don’t focus on my mess, focus on your mess,” she reiterates, waving a dismissive hand like she’s shooing smoke away.
As much as you’d like to deflect, poke the wound and dig deeper into Lois Lane’s love life, she’s right. Completely, annoyingly right, just like always.
“I am focused,” you say, peeking over and seeing that Riley is still there. Laughing and touching his arm.
“You look like you’re watching someone steal your car.”
“She’s touching him,” you whisper, horrified. “Why is she allowed to touch him?”
“Because he’s a person, not government property,” Lois deadpans.
You turn back to her, whispering urgently,
“She’s laughing at everything he says. Like everything is funny. Nothing is that funny.”
Lois lifts an eyebrow.
“He’s a funny guy.”
“He is,” you admit, defeated, then immediately panic. You didn't want to admit it, but you practically swooned at the thought of his corny little jokes.
Lois stares at you for a long moment, then pats your shoulder like she’s about to bury you.
“You are absolutely, 100 percent, catastrophically in love with Jimmy Olsen.”
You blink.
“No, I’m not! And catastrophic? Really?
Her eyes sweep over you in your current predicament. It says a whole lot.
Finally, Riley takes her leave, and you slip back into motion, returning to your desk, scuttling around in an almost spy-like fashion. You’re practically the second coming of James Bond.
If James Bond wore sneakers and was the best writer the Daily Planet's culture section has ever seen.
You pretend to type, sneaking glances at him every few seconds.
It’s not your fault you’re acting like this. He planted the seed with his little compliments and lingering stares.
You know very well you shouldn't be acting like this and ordinarily you wouldn't. But it's like you've caught a case of the Jimmys and it's fatal.
You can tell from the way he’s staring at his screen that he’s editing something.
He gets this twinkle in his eyes, a rhythmic tapping of his foot, and he chews on the end of his pen, like he’s trying to physically process inspiration.
You’re watching him like a hawk, so it was only a matter of time before he caught you staring like he’s about to become dinner.
“Yes?” he says, muffled around the pen.
Your brain goes blank. You offer no response, no excuse, not even a sound effect. Just… blinking.
He rolls his chair toward your desk, wheels squeaking dramatically like fate itself is mocking you.
“What are you doing?” he asks, leaning just close enough that you can see the blue hue of his eyes.
You clear your throat, tearing your attention away from the empty Word doc with nothing but ‘asfgjhhnk’ written on it.
“The real question is what are you doing, Olsen?”
He blinks, thrown off by your accusatory tone. “What do you mean?”
“Yesterday, you said that I’m…” You gesture vaguely, searching for the right word. “…amazing at what I do or whatever. It’s weird.”
“You’re disturbed because I complimented you?” he asks, eyebrows lifting.
“…perhaps.”
“We’re friends with benefits,” he says, shrugging like the world is simple. “Keyword being friends. Friends give each other compliments.”
“You give me too many.”
He smirks, pen still tucked between his lips, full of boyish charm.“So now there’s a limit?”
“You know what I mean.”
He tilts his head slightly, studying you with that maddeningly perceptive look.
“No, I don’t think I do. You get quiet every time I say something nice. Makes me think you like it.”
You roll your eyes, “You think too much.”
He slides the pen from his mouth and taps it against his knee, leaning in closer than strictly necessary.
“Maybe. But I’m pretty sure you don’t hate it.”
“Whatever,” you mutter, trying to focus on your fake typing again.
He laughs under his breath, soft and warm, and it lands right in the centre of your ribs.
“You know,” he says, voice dipped in that dangerous sincerity again, “it’s okay to let someone care about you.”
Your stomach drops like an elevator cable snaps.
“Don’t,” you say quickly, too quickly. “Don’t start that.”
“Start what?”
“That… emotional stuff.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“‘Emotional stuff.’ Very specific.”
“I’m serious, Jimmy. We said no feelings. We agreed.”
He nods, but the look in his eyes is steady and annoyingly honest.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “We did.”
A beat of silence passes. Electricity coils tight between you like a thread pulled taut.
“So why does it feel like you’re scared?” he asks.
“Get over yourself.”
“I'm serious. Are you…catching feelings?”
It feels like you’ve been struck by lightning. Your mind scrambles for words. Maybe a joke to deflect, literally anything but admitting it. That you were, in fact, catastrophically in love with him.
Nothing but silence and the hammering of your pulse.
“Fuck off,” you scoff, the words sharp and brittle, more panic than anger. You shove your chair back, the wheels shrieking across the floor, and you stand so fast your knee clips the edge of your desk.
Ignoring the sting, you turn and make your way out of the bullpen, shoulders high, eyes fixed forward.
If you never said it, then maybe it wasn't true.
***
You didn’t want to see him, but you couldn’t help it.
All you had to do was ignore him, and you’ve been doing a pretty good job of that.
Well…mostly.
Truth was, you didn’t want to. You missed seeing him smile, missed hearing him ramble about camera lenses and exposure.
You missed hanging out with him, hooking up with him, the stupid inside jokes and the way he'd kiss the nape of your neck as he settled behind you.
How it feels when someone actually looks at you like they see something worth staying for.
You’ve been on a few dates since then, attempting to prove you weren't just fine, but thriving.
That was not the case. You had almost forgotten just how dire the dating scene in Metropolis is.
One guy showed up forty minutes late and left you standing in the rain without an apology, and another stole your cab the second the check hit the table.
The last one wouldn’t stop talking about his ex and his crypto portfolio.
And honestly, the sex was middling, but more than anything else, you just wanted someone to talk to. Actual conversation.
Not just small talk or lazy compliments or the same script everyone reads from.
Though, in a cruel twist of irony, actual conversation is what led you here today.
What are you supposed to do?
Choose between pretending nothing matters and opening yourself up to disaster?
Or risk someone getting too close and watching everything fall apart again?
You pick at the leftover chow mein from a takeout container, swaddled in blankets like you’re a newborn baby, burritoed in self-pity.
Old reruns of some black-and-white sitcom you don’t even really like flicker from the TV, laugh track echoing through your empty apartment.
This is how life was meant to be lived, you tell yourself.
You shovel another forkful of noodles and sigh, just filling the void.
Totally not thinking about Jimmy Olsen.
Not at all.
You needed air, something other than leftovers and reruns gnawing holes in your ribs.
So you make your way up to your building’s roof, liking how the cold wind clears your head and how easy it is to take in the whole city from up there. The lights, the noise, the sense that everything keeps moving even when you’re stuck.
Sometimes you even get front row seats to whatever villain-of-the-week Superman or the “Justice Gang” are taking on.
You settle against the low brick wall, letting the breeze tangle your hair, and you breathe. Really breathe.
For once, it almost helps.
Just then, you hear a clunk and rattle. It's the sound of someone climbing up the fire escape.
You turn, and what else do you see but Jimmy, half breathless, a full pizza balanced in one hand like a trained circus act, camera bag slung over his shoulder like he just came straight from work.
“Jimmy?”
Oh. Jimmy.
You wished it didn't feel so good to see him.
“I buzzed your apartment, but there was no response,” he says, stepping over the ledge like he’s done it a thousand times. “So I figured I’d find you up here.”
Of course he did.
He knows you far too well.
That’s the problem.
That’s the terrifying, impossible, intoxicating problem.
“Well, I already ate,” you say.
Your stomach immediately betrays you with a loud, desperate growl that echoes off the rooftop.
Jimmy raises an eyebrow, a tiny smile tugging at his mouth.
“Right,” he says. “Well… maybe a few slices won’t hurt. Plus, it’s your favourite.”
He opens the box, steam curling into the night air, and the smell hits you like a warm embrace.
Pepperoni, olives, extra cheese.
You could cry, honestly.
You swallow, arms wrapped around yourself like armour.
“What are you doing here, Jimmy?” you ask quietly.
He sets the pizza down beside you and sits. He's close, but not touching.
Careful.
Like he knows you’re made of glass right now.
“Trying,” he says softly, “to talk to you. If you’ll let me.”
“There's nothing to talk about. Our little situation clearly ran its course.”
“So does that mean we're not friends anymore. Remember the keyword in Friends with Benefits?”
“Things are just complicated now.”
“Complicated how?” he asks gently. “What changed?”
You say nothing, breathing out through our mouth, a cloud of condensation billowing into the air.
What did change?
Was it him?
But when you look at him, waiting there all so patiently for your answer, you know what it is.
It was you.
Something broke. That part that tells you not to let anyone in, somehow let him in. Practically threw the doors open and laid out a red carpet and that scared you.
Somewhere along the way between hookups and late-night calls, you let your guard down, and you don't know how to deal with it.
You open your mouth, but chuckle at yourself. What could you possibly say? Would it just end up hurting you more?
"I'm not trying to trap you or force you into something you don’t want.” He nudges the pizza box closer, like he’s offering peace instead of pepperoni. “I just don’t understand why you’re acting like we’re strangers.”
You want to say, ‘you don’t understand, I’m terrible at this, I break everything I care about…or it breaks me.’
“I don’t know how to do this,” you whisper. “Every time I put down my walls, things go to hell.”
“You think you’re the only one who’s scared?”
You finally look at him and his eyes are softer than you’re ready for, earnest and steady.
“I’m scared too,” he says. “But I’m still here.”
“But for how long?” you mumble as you stare at his chest instead of his eyes. “How long until you decide I’m not worth it?”
His whole expression shifts, his brows tightening, his mouth parting like he’s been punched. He leans in without hesitation, a cold palm cupping your cheek, the gentle drag of his thumb grounding you.
“You’re worth it,” he says, voice steady and low. “You’ve always been worth it.”
He rests his forehead against yours, and your eyelashes flutter closed despite yourself. His breath is a warm exhale against your lips, steady and sure, even as your heart stampedes in your chest.
“From the day you walked into the office, full of charm and ideas,” he murmurs, “you hit me like a tornado. How could you not be worth it?”
“What about all the girls in love with you, Casanova?” You try to lace it with humour, try to make it light, but your voice wobbles, betraying you.
He huffs something between a sigh and a laugh.
“They’re no tornado,” he says, barely above a whisper. “They’re not… you.”
Then his hair brushes your forehead as he pulls back enough to look at you directly. His eyes, heartbreakingly blue, search yours like he’s trying to memorise every hidden thought.
Wanting to understand you.
Wanting to stay.
You take him in all at once, the worn brown jacket he refuses to replace, the crooked tie, the tiny enamel pin you once gifted him that he’s never gone a day without wearing.
And higher still, the freckles scattered across his skin like constellations you used to map with your lips, one kiss at a time, until he was breathless and whining and tugging you closer like he never wanted to let go.
It’s been so long since you’ve kissed him.
Too long.
You miss the way he held you like you were a masterpiece. You miss the heat of his breath against your throat, the tremble in his hands, the sweet, aching mess of being his and being wanted.
Fuck, you need him.
You need to disappear into him, curl up in his arms, bury your face against his chest and feel him shaking when he whispers your name. You need to be held by him, to be seen by him.
But instead…
“I need to think,” you say, voice smaller than you knew it could get.
“I understand.”
He says it without pain, just acceptance.
His hand slips from your cheek slowly, like he’s trying not to startle you. When he stands up, you already want him to stay.
“I’ll give you all the time you need,” he adds.
“And if… if you want me to walk away, I will. But not because you’re not worth it. Never because of that.”
He heads towards the fire escape ladder, and you call out, completely out of the right words to say, “Thanks for the pizza, Jimmy.”
“Anytime.”
***
Your little talk from the other night did nothing to stop you from ignoring him.
But thinking about your feelings was hard; you need time.
You’d see him in the bullpen, and he’d give you that small hopeful smile, the one that used to make your knees soften, and you’d force yourself to look away.
If he passed you in the hallway, you’d mutter a hello or lift your hand in something barely resembling a wave, but things weren’t the same. Everything between you felt stretched thin like a pulled muscle that refuses to heal.
It was another late night at the office, almost everyone long gone, the sun going down fast. You’d been writing yourself into the ground, chasing deadlines and hiding in busywork like it might smother the thoughts clawing at your brain.
And when it all got too loud, you did what you always do: you escaped to the roof.
The air was warm, thick with summer and the faint smell of rain. You perched down against the railing, legs stretched out, breathing in the skyline like it might cure you. It was quiet, peaceful, the kind of night that makes the city feel like it’s holding its breath.
You plucked petals off a stray flower you’d grabbed from a decorative office bouquet on your way out, humming under your breath like an idiot, “He loves me… he loves me not… he loves me…”
Your voice cracked on the last one, at the thought of it.
The other night was practically him confirming how he felt about you, but that little part of you wouldn't let you believe it.
Eventually, you pushed yourself up to head back downstairs, ready to bury yourself in work again. But when you pulled on the heavy rooftop access door, it didn’t move.
You tried again, harder.
Nothing.
“…you have got to be kidding me.”
You jiggled the handle like a maniac.
You shoved your shoulder into the metal.
You even kicked it once, immediately regretting it. Your shoes were not made for such activities.
The door remained stubbornly, mockingly locked.
“No, no, no! Rooftops have finally betrayed me.”
You paced in tight little circles, fingers tugging at your hair like maybe stress alone would pry the door open.
“Of course this is happening,” you muttered to no one.
You pressed your forehead to your knees, crouched over like a little gremlin.
Great. Now you are stuck. Alone.
But then the door opened, and you nearly collapsed in relief.
Your saviour.
Jimmy.
You’d never been so glad to see him, not since the time he showed up at your apartment at 2 AM with hot chocolate and a DVD box set of Gilmore Girls because you’d texted him, “I can't sleep.”
He stepped out onto the roof, slightly out of breath, holding a takeout bag like it was a peace offering.
“You disappeared for a while, so I thought…”
He shrugged, lifting the bag a little. “Emergency rations.”
Before you could form an actual sentence, because your brain was still rebooting, Jimmy let the heavy door swing behind him.
“Wait, don’t let it—”
THUNK.
The metal slammed shut so decisively that it echoed across the rooftop.
Jimmy blinks at the door.
Then at you.
Then, at the takeout bag.
“…close,” you finish weakly.
He tries the handle.
Shoulder-checks it.
Nothing.
He looks back with a sheepish expression, holding a bag of lo mein and dumplings, like this had just become the world’s saddest picnic.
“So,” he says, “We’re locked up here.”
You stare at him from hugging your knees to yourself, the sun almost completely set behind you. He stares at you as the wind tugs gently at his hair.
You finally exhale, “Why are you always bringing me food?”
“Why are you always sulking on rooftops?” he counters.
You open your mouth, then close it again. Fair point.
“…touché.”
He gives a tiny grin, the one that always messes with your brain, and sets the bag down carefully between you both.
“Well,” he says, sinking to sit beside it, “if we’re trapped until someone finds us, we might as well eat.”
You hesitate, something tugging painfully in your chest.
“Jimmy—”
“Just relax with me,” he said quietly. “We don’t have to talk about anything unless you want to.”
“Do you have your phone on you?” you ask, a sudden spark of hope flaring in your chest.
Jimmy pats his pockets, face falling.
“It’s, uh… at my desk.”
“So is mine,” you mutter, letting your head thunk back against the metal railing in resigned defeat.
Silence stretches. The city hums beneath you, car horns and sirens drifting up like background noise to your personal emotional crisis.
Jimmy’s voice breaks the quiet, softer than you’ve ever heard it, “Why do you push me away?”
You stare straight ahead, heart hammering so hard you feel it in your teeth.
“It’s just safer,” you finally whisper. “I’ve been hurt in the past, and letting someone in feels like handing them a weapon.”
“I'd never hurt you.”
“Most of me knows that, I mean it's you. But there's that little part that's a lot louder than the rest of me. And it's because I care.”
You continue as you pick at your trousers like a nervous habit, “I care so much about you, I don’t know how to handle it. I’m terrified that if I just keep you at a distance, then maybe when it ends it won’t kill me.”
His breath catches, watching you distract yourself and keeping your eyes off of him.
“I hate this. This weird, silent war we’ve been fighting. Pretending we’re fine, pretending we don’t notice everything. Playing these games with each other when we could just…”
“Be together?” you finish for him, the words trembling out like you’re stepping off a ledge.
Jimmy holds your gaze, every emotion he’s been trying to hide written across his face, unguarded and achingly sincere.
“If that’s what you want,” he says.
“I want…”
Your throat closes, but you force the words out anyway, voice shaking,
“I’m scared as hell, okay?” you breathe, the words trembling out of you like they’ve been locked behind your ribs for years. “It’s been a long time since I let someone in, but the pain of not being with you is—” your voice cracks, “—it’s worse. I want… I want to stop pretending.”
For a moment, everything is still.
And then he exhales, like a man who’s been drowning, like someone who’s been holding his breath for weeks, maybe months, maybe longer, and you’ve just hauled him back up to air.
His shoulders drop, his eyes soften, and the relief that floods his face is so raw it hits you square in the chest.
“Thank God,” he whispers.
And then he kisses you.
It’s not careful or hesitant. It’s more desperate, relieved, like he’s afraid that if he doesn’t kiss you now, he might lose the chance forever.
His hands cradle your face like he’s memorising every angle, every piece of you he thought he might never get to touch again.
You melt against him instantly, fingers tangling in his shirt, pulling him closer because there’s no space left for fear, not when he’s holding you like this, not when you’ve waited so damn long.
When you break apart for breath, your foreheads press together, both of you breathless and shaking.
“I’m so in love with you, I feel stupid,” you confess, voice barely more than a whisper, your nose brushing his.
He laughs, and it sends a shiver down your spine.
“Well, I’m so in love with you I—” he pauses, smiling as his thumb traces your cheek, “—I forgot how to speak English for a second.”
You snort, laughing through the tears you didn’t even realise were forming.
“You’re a fool.”
“For you?” he says instantly, grinning crookedly. “Definitely.”
And then he leans in again, kissing you slower this time, like he wants to savour every second.
The world blurs; every worry you had about this, so far away it may as well be in a different universe.
Everything you need is right here, every last detail perfect, down to his ghosting against your lips and the devoted look in his eyes as he whispers, “Tell me to stop if you need to.”
You don’t hesitate.
“Don’t stop.”
He smiles, that soft, crooked smile that turns your knees to jelly, and his hands find your waist, pulling you in until you're perched on his lap.
Before he can say a single word, you’re already leaning in, peppering kisses across his cheeks, his temples, his jaw.
He bursts into laughter, warm and bright and helpless, his arms tightening around you as if to keep you from floating away again, metaphorically or literally.
“No, no— hey—” he tries to protest between laughs, but he’s terrible at pretending he wants you to stop, head tipped back, cheeks flushing pink under every press of your lips. “You’re going to make me— that tickles—”
But you’re relentless, no freckle would go unkissed if it were up to you.
“You’re obsessed with them,” he accuses weakly, though his smile gives him away completely.
“It's part of your charm, Jimmy,” you reply, kissing his nose one more time for good measure.
The two of you kiss like you’re speaking a language only your bodies can understand, completely fluent in it.
Every slow press of his lips against yours is an “I love you.”
Every breathless sigh against your mouth is an “I missed you.”
His hands roam your back in soft, reverent sweeps, fingers tracing up your spine like he’s reading a map he once knew by heart and is terrified to lose again. His palms settle against you, saying, “I’m not going anywhere.”
He buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling like the scent of your skin is something he’s been starving for. Little kisses follow, one after another, placed with aching tenderness, and each one is an “I need you.”
Then with those magical hands of his, your shirt and bra find themselves on the ground beside you and well… you know what he was saying with that.
***
“Please, Jimmy,” you cry out, digging your nails into his back.
Ordinarily, you wouldn't be fucking on a roof. But when the opportunity presents itself, you gotta grab the bull by the horns and by that you mean, you gotta ride Jimmy Olsen into the sunset.
He's beneath you, a complete wreck. His lips are swollen from your kisses, skin littered in love bites, blooming like roses in spring, hair in his eyes as he thrusts up into you with reckless abandon.
He can't get enough of you, and he's making that clear tonight. He almost lost you before; there's no way he could lose you now.
“Oh, Jimmy…” you whine against his skin.
“Like that?” He asks, his voice deeper than usual and breathless from his efforts.
“Fuck yeah,” you reply, voice trembling.
He was doing a number on you, fucking you just the way you've needed for weeks.
You were so perfect, so beautiful, he was locked on you with desperate eyes.
“Have you needed me just as much as I needed you?”
You nod profusely in response. If only he knew how much you were craving him. You were moments away from climbing his fire escape and breaking into his place to cuddle.
“You know it.”
Hitting your sensitive spot dead on over and over again. The sound of your hips meeting his echoes so loud, the whole city might hear it.
Your fingers dig in deeper, and he groans, the sound of it doing things to you you didn’t know were possible. There were definitely going to be marks in the morning, and you wanted them there. You wanted him to wake up the next morning completely covered in marks from you, head to toe.
What a pretty sight that would be.
“Holy shit,” you cry out, rocking your hips against him as best as you can, but your legs are shaking like crazy.
“No one else I want more than you,” he says, as he lifts his hips to fuck you at a deeper angle.
You can feel every delicious inch of it. The way his cock pulses inside of you, every time you so much as look at him.
Everything was sending you into overdrive, fuck, even the way he said your name.
“Jimmy, I’m not gonna—I’m—!”
You don't even get the words fully out before you're reaching your climax. The toe-curling pleasure sends you right over the edge.
It's like you're up in the clouds, the sound of his needy moans pushing you further as he follows you after.
Your eyes roll back as you take all of his load, and he just holds you firm, kissing wherever his lips can get to.
“Jimmy, I… Oh, Jimmy.”
The words tumble out, your brain too scrambled to fully form sentences.
“I know, me too.”
Minutes later, still sprawled across Jimmy’s chest, boneless and buzzing in the warm haze of post-sex bliss, idly tugging at his hair and tracing lazy shapes along his jaw, when a loud knock on the door jolts you out of it.
“Uh— anyone up there?” calls a nervous voice from the stairwell.
You both freeze, and you both know exactly who that voice belongs to.
“…Is that—?”
“Yep,” you whisper, eyes widening. “That’s Clark.”
Jimmy immediately scrambles, nearly throwing you off him in the process, both of you reaching for scattered clothes like contestants in a chaotic game show.
“J-just a second!” Jimmy yells toward the door, voice cracking like a teenager caught doing exactly what he was doing.
There’s a rustle of denim, the sound of buttons being aggressively forced into the wrong holes, and you hop on one foot trying to find your missing shoe while simultaneously adjusting your shirt. Only to still end up looking like someone electrocuted a raccoon.
“You can open the door!”
The door swings open to reveal Clark standing there, impossibly tall and painfully polite, with red ears.
“I came back to the office and saw the elevator was still running, and the lights up here were on, so I thought I’d check in,” he explains, rubbing the back of his neck.
“You're truly our hero,” you say, voice full of relief. For a second, you thought you'd be spending the whole night on the roof.
“Seriously, thanks, man,” Jimmy pats on the shoulder as you both pass.
Clark’s super ears had caught the last of your little encounter, but what you guys didn't know couldn't hurt you.
But it wasn't like you were doing a good job of hiding it.
Between the blissed, dumb grins, the buttons on Jimmy's shirt were done all wrong and you were missing a sock.
It was obvious what went down on that rooftop.
***
It’s been a few weeks, and Jimmy Olsen is officially off the market, much to the chagrin of every woman in Metropolis, you’re sure.
A few weeks, there have been no catastrophic spirals about whether you made the right choice.
Turns out communication really is key, who would’ve thought?
It felt good, less scary, knowing that he'd be there no matter what, that you didn't have to face the world alone all the time.
You’re curled into his side on the couch, both buried under the ridiculously soft blanket you “borrowed” from your own apartment. The place is littered with pieces of you now, your camera on the counter, your mug next to the sink, your fuzzy socks hanging off the armrest. It looks like home, smells like home, feels like home.
The sound of the TV fades into background noise, forgotten as the two of you fall into the most sacred of couple traditions: office gossip.
“Did you know Clark and Lois are seeing each other?” you whisper dramatically, like you’re discussing state secrets rather than relationship rumours.
Jimmy doesn’t even look surprised, just grins and tosses a piece of popcorn at you.
You snatch it right out of the air with a smug flourish.
“Oh yeah?” he says, trying to look casual, though there’s clear delight hidden in the curve of his mouth.
“Oh yeah, for months,” you confirm, leaning back against his chest. “And she had the nerve to say I was catastrophically in love with you.”
You cross your arms in mock outrage, muttering, “The audacity…”
Jimmy laughs, the warm rumbling kind that vibrates against your back, his arm tightening around your waist.
“You are catastrophically in love with me,” he points out smugly.
You glare up at him, or try to, but the smile pulling at your lips ruins the effect entirely.
“Yeah, well, you’re catastrophically in love with me, so who’s the real loser here?”
“Oh, definitely me,” he says without hesitation, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead.
“Hopelessly doomed. Absolutely ruined. No recovery in sight.”
“Oh, Jimmy. You’re ridiculous.”
“And you love it.”
You sigh dramatically, melting back into him, letting your fingers trace idle patterns across the back of his hand.
“Yeah,” you admit softly. “I really do.”
His thumb strokes along your knuckles.
“Catastrophically,” he murmurs.
And somehow, it feels like the safest word in the world.
could we perhaps have another part for the “need someone older” story or “mother dearest”
I think I have to officially retire the "Mommy Dearest" series and there's a 99% I won't add to it. But I can write another part for "Need Someone Older". I just need to think of some ideas 😄
