summary: friday night, a little too high and a little too comfortable, turns into something more when lois gets an idea.
word count: 336
tag list: @punksnotdeadbutiam, @unabashedlyinlovewithyou,@whotfisthatsblog,@wildernessmuse, @starwarsbian, @lilacsandlavenderhaze, @florayli, @gingerfemme22, @peachyvillehorror, @cerezzzita, @kryptidfiles, @garrettgr4h4m, @rynwritesstuff, & @bellathebookdevouer | wanna be added?
content warning: 18+ only!! threesome fic LET’S GOOOOO!!! both lois and clark want that cookie real bad. use of marijuana and a blindfold. high sex (obviously) on lois and reader’s part. thigh slapping, nipple play, oral sex, and fingering (all r!rec). clark is veryyyyy soft whereas lois is rough. like always, not proofread. we die like men. this was inspired by @tw1sters’ AMAZING fic, “guess who?” if you have not read it yet, go do it now!! one of my favorite fics ever <33
a/n: hii everyone!!! another madonna related fic (i’m sorry, this song has been everywhere on my insta feed). i have been wanting to write clois x reader for MONTHS. i had a better flushed out idea for my first fic of them but it’s taking me so long to finish it. so enjoy this one instead :))) my laptop was acting funky while writing this so let me know if there’s any glaring errors. if anyone has any ideas or thoughts for clois, please feel free to send me an ask. i’d love it <333
LISTEN TO THE SONG FOR THE FULL EXPERIENCE
Friday nights at Lois and Clark’s apartment were usually relaxing.
After a long week of deadlines and disasters, Lois would buy a generous supply of edibles or blunts from the nearest corner store.
But tonight was different.
You were on their floor with your back against the couch, the blunt hanging lazily from your lips while Lois sprawled beside you, one arm draped over the back of the couch and her bare feet tangled comfortably with yours.
Clark was in the kitchen, humming as she moved between the counters, gathering chips, fruit, and whatever else she could find for when you two started to feel peckish.
You were halfway through telling Lois about how you hadn’t been with anyone in almost a year when she gasped, leaning into you and poking your shoulder as though you’d just confessed to a crime.
“But you’re so pretty…”
You snorted, gently catching her wrist.
“I’m pretty?”
“Very.”
“That’s your professional opinion?”
“Absolutely.” She nodded solemnly, leaning closer. “I’m a journalist. I know things.”
From the kitchen came a muffled scoff.
“That’s not how journalism works, Lo.”
Lois turned her head toward the kitchen, squinting.
“Did anyone ask you, Kent?”
“Nope.”
“Then keep making snacks.”
Clark laughed, and you shook your head, taking another drag from the blunt. She eventually wandered back into the living room with a bowl of snacks as Lois leaned into you again.
“Seriously?” she asked. “Like… no one?”
You shrugged, motioning for Clark to sit next to you.
“Why does everyone sound so shocked?”
“Because you’re you,” Clark stated, grinning as she reached over and idly played with your hair.
Lois snorted. “Yeah… you’re like a goddess.”
A flush crept across your face, and you glanced between them.
“See? Exactly.”
Clark giggled, exchanging a look with Lois, who began to smirk.
It was the kind of smile that immediately made you suspicious.
“What?” you questioned, raising an eyebrow at Lois while she tried—and failed—to look innocent.
“I kinda,” she said slowly, “wanna play a game.”
Several minutes later, you were sprawled out on their couch, legs spread wide as one of Clark’s silk ties covered your eyes while you waited impatiently for somebody to make the first move.
Despite her eagerness now, Clark was worried at first that you both were too high and that Lois’ little game wasn’t fair to you.
But that changed after seeing how your thighs twitched the moment Lois ran her calloused fingers over your slit.
When a whimper escaped from your lips at the sudden touch, she chuckled, “Aww, sweetheart… look at her. She’s so wet, isn’t she?”
You hear Clark take a sharp breath. She tries to speak, initially clearing her throat, but falters.
“…This isn't right.”
Lois turns her attention back to you. Her finger hooks right on the edge of your panties, brushing your flesh.
“Oh, but she likes it… don’t ya, honey?”
You nod before gasping aloud as the cool room breeze hits your bare cunt when she strips you of your underwear.
“Y-yes, Lo… I do.”
Even with the blindfold over your eyes, you could still feel the cocky smirk on her face.
“See, Clark? I told you…”
Settling better in between your thighs, Lois leaned across your skin, using her steady hands to hold your hips in place.
“Okay, baby… remember the rules of the game? We’re gonna take turns and see if you can guess who it is… and if you're right, you get exactly what you want, sound good?”
Your body shivered as she began to press soft kisses to your inner thighs, moving closer to the heat of your skin. Like a broken record, you let out a breathless sigh,
“Yes, Lois…”
The hazy sensation of the high mixed with her tongue tracing along your sensitive flesh made you momentarily think you had ascended to heaven.
Lois laps at your pussy only briefly before pulling away faster than you could moan, firmly not letting you process what her mouth felt like on you.
Once her touch deserted your body, you were marooned there—suspended in near silence, blinded as you felt their intense gaze over your body.
You hear someone's knees thud against the floor, right back nestled in between your legs. You don’t register anything until she starts to circle your throbbing clit with her finger.
There’s a gentleness in how this one treats you. She eases her finger into you and starts to worship your pussy with her tongue. It feels so reverent.
Whoever it is continues to intoxicate you, short-circuiting your brain, challenging you not to anchor your hand in her hair.
“Uhh… is it Lois?”
A hard slap across the side of your thigh resonated throughout the room. Tears flooded the corner of your eyes as you yelped.
Lois gloated down at you, “Wrong.”
“I’m sorry… It's C-Clark.”
Clark coos, shifting upwards to pepper kisses on your lower stomach. She slips another finger into you, pumping in and out.
“It’s okay, darling… don’t cry… Doing so good for us...”
The moment her fingers leave your aching hole, the agonizing emptiness leaves you desperate. Soon, you feel somebody’s breath fan across your sensitive folds.
The mouth that connects to your core this time is feral, unlike Clark’s. She eats you out like a starving animal, her tongue crashing against you as she rams two fingers into you without warning.
She’s relentless, denying any mercy to your poor cunt. Her tongue laps hungrily, flicking your swollen clit, almost pushing you straight over the edge.
“Shit… It’s Lois! Loi—”
Gleefully, Lois slows down her pace and withdraws her fingers. “Good job, sweetie,” she purrs in your ear, “Now we’re all set to start, especially since you’re so easy to make cum.”
Set to start?
“What do you mean?” you ask in an annoyed tone as she draws back her fingers and mouth from you.
She responds, “Oh, that was just the warm-up.”
They take turns eating your pussy only to pull away when your thighs squeeze the sides of their heads—a telltale sign of your impending orgasm they learned quickly.
Notwithstanding the fact Lois clearly doesn’t want to lose at her game, Clark begs her as her tongue is buried inside of you, almost close to cumming herself.
“Please let her cum, Lo… she’s been so patient.”
Lois growls as she takes her frustration out on you by slapping your thigh, “No… Just look at her, Clark… She’s enjoying it, aren’t ya, honey?”
A hand slides over your face, guiding you to focus. You smell the sharp trail of Lois’ perfume in the heat of the living room smelling like sex and weed.
She stares at your face, Clark’s tie—now soaked with your tears and kisses the corner of your mouth.
“Awww, do you wanna cum?”
Clark curls her finger so deeply that your spine arches, failing to focus on Lois’ sweet yet condescending words.
“Y-yes I do, please…”
She drags her hand under and into the opening of your shirt, nodding to Clark. She twists your nipple after flicking it to get you to buck once more.
“No bra, huh? Such a dirty slut. Always showing up here hoping we’ll fuck you stupid?”
With Clark mapping your core like alchemy, while Lois squeezes your breast, you’re the closest you’ve been to your orgasm all night. The white-hot ecstasy begins manifesting as you continue to be ravaged by them.
“O-oh, fuck…. Right there…”
With the flick of their wrists, you finally cum. It’s overwhelming. Unending, leaving your body shaking while you mutter whatever incoherently.
Once you eventually ride it out, Lois’ hands move to loosen the tie from behind your head, allowing you to see again.
“That’s it… Such a good pet. Feel better now?”
You think you nod as you bury your face into Lois’ neck, still crying softly, struggling to recover. She cups your cheek, eyeing Clark rising from your thighs, her lower face glistening with your arousal.
The two watch you in sick fascination while together, they touch different areas of your body to soothe you, ignoring how ruined their couch is, covered in your mess.
Lois kisses your temple, “Need us to help you clean up, baby?”
Pairing - wc: BND!Peter Parker x Gf!Reader - 2.3k
Summary: The sound of being known after years being forgotten makes Peter lose every careful piece of himself
Tags: NO SPOILERS, 18+, emotional smut, mdni, p with little plot, p in v, first time (established relationship), name kink, praise kink, needy!Peter, reader is down bad horrendous, use of petnames (baby, one Tiger), kinda proofread
My first time writing for Peter. Pretty rusty after a month not posting. Please be kind! I got a pretty angsty fic in the works 😉
P. Parker masterlist
"Peter!"
The first time you said his name like that, he stopped moving.
You were on top of him, knees sunk into the rumpled sheets on either side of his hips, hands braced against his beating chest as the last hard waves of your orgasm rolled through you.
His apartment was too warm around you, the little box fan in the window doing nothing but dragging in the humid city air, taxi horns and distant sirens smearing together somewhere below. The sheets had twisted loose from the corners, damp beneath your shins, damp under his back, damp everywhere your bodies had rubbed friction into cheap 300-thread cotton.
Your thighs were shaking badly enough that you could feel it in your bones. Sweat gathered at the base of your neck, between your breasts, at the crease at the back of your thighs and elbows. Your throat ached from keeping quiet for the sake of his neighbors, your thighs trembled with the strain of holding yourself up, and the place where your bodies met was slick and swollen and so sensitive that even the smallest shift made your stomach pull tight.
That had been the most overwhelming part, worse somehow than the stretch of him inside you, worse than the careful roll of his hips or the way his hands could not decide whether to hold you steady or let you move however you wanted.
He watched like he couldn't afford to blink. Like the first time with you was something he had already convinced himself he would never get to have, and now that he had it, now that you were above him, flushed and shaking and breaking apart on him, he did not trust memory to do the moment justice later.
Peter had been painfully careful from the start. His palms trembled at your breasts, your waist, the back of your neck. His voice kept cracking around soft check-ins, asking if you were okay, if it felt good, if you wanted more, if he could touch you there, if he could help, if he could move, if you were sure. You teased him for talking too much, to which he answered with one amused chuckle. Then you sank down on him again and watched the laugh die in his throat.
Now, there was nothing.
No nervous check-in, or shy smile. Not even an attempt to joke his way out of wanting too much.
His fingers tightened at your hips with a strength that thrilled you before it worried you, the pads of them pressing into skin made slippery by sweat, and his mouth agape. His chestnut eyes were fixed on a point beyond your shoulder, while the flush across his cheeks sank lower toward his chest. The curls at his forehead were damp, sticking in messy pieces to his skin. Beneath your clammy palms, his heartbeat kicked fast and hard once, then seemed to hold itself still with the rest of him.
You blinked down at him, still pulsing around him, still too sensitive to consider what changed.
“Hm? Baby?” you frowned, trying to sound calmer than you felt. “Are you okay?”
Peter swallowed hard, gaze dropping to your lips.
"Wh—what did you say?" he cleared his throat. "Just now."
You stared at him through the dark. Your hips shifted, a tiny, involuntary grind as your body tried to ride out the aftershock and ease the ache settling into your knees, and his cock twitched inside you so suddenly you whimpered.
"I—I said your name?" The answer came out unsure, the end of it pitching higher than the rest.
His eyes snapped back to yours fully.
For one awful moment, you convinced yourself you had done something wrong, offensive, or forbidden, crossing some undisclosed boundary. He didn't press a reassuring kiss along the crease between your furrowed brows. He didn't slip into a clever little quip. His whole body remained as unflinching as his stare, causing unease to settle low in your belly like bricks tied to your feet.
"Can you say it again?"
You licked your swollen lips, cocked your head, and swallowed. "Peter."
He groaned, a low, filthy rumble felt beneath your fingertips, sounding nothing like the sweet, careful young man who kissed and hugged you like he was afraid of wanting too much. His hips jerked up, and you gasped, fingers curling against the firm plane of his chest as the movement sent a sharp, tingling pulse through your overstimulated body.
"Again, baby," he rasped. "Please. Say it again."
The plea made you clench around him.
You leaned forward until your palms pressed flatter against him, close enough to feel the frantic beat of his heart beneath your hands and the uneven rise of his ribs as he tried to breathe through it. Under your fingers, you could feel old scars, faint ridges and shallow lines scattered across his skin, each one a small history he had tried to laugh off whenever you noticed too long.
"Peter," you murmured, slower this time, letting every letter land. "You feel so good."
His head tipped back into the pillow, jaw slack, Adam's apple bobbing while stifling a moan. His hands slid to the meat of your ass, dragging you down against him. Wetness smeared between your bodies with every small, shaking movement, your thighs slick against his hips, the room full of soft skin sounds and the broken mess of both your breathing.
"Peter," you tried again, quieter this time, curious to see what it would do to him. "You’re so good to me. You’ve been so sweet with me."
He shut his eyes.
"Baby," he warned, but it came out as if asking for mercy.
"Peter," you mimicked his tone, rolling your hips down in a slow circle, and felt his hands flex against you. "I know you. I know how you try to say sorry before you even ask for something. I know how you look at the door like you’re already planning how to leave before anyone can make you. I know how your hands shake when you’re trying to be gentle."
His eyes opened when you touched his cheek, thumb dragging over the damp heat beneath his eye.
"And now I know you like hearing me say your name in bed."
You barely had time to blink before his arms locked around you, and the room turned.
One second you were above him, trembling and dizzy, and the next your back hit the damp sheets with a little gasp knocked from your chest. Peter's body covered yours, one hand braced beside your head. His curls fell forward and tickled your cheek. His mouth hovered over yours, open and panting, so close you could feel every exhale skin across your lips.
You stared up at him wide-eyed and far more awake.
"Too much?" he got out, stunned by himself. His hips were still pressed tight to yours, buried deep, his whole body held taut. Even like this, even frantic, Peter was careful with you. Careful enough not to hurt you. Not careful enough to hide that something in him had gone ravenous and needy all at once. "Tell me if it’s too much."
You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him down until his mouth hovered over yours, fingers massaging nape. "Don’t stop, Peter."
His forehead dropped to yours, then thrust into you so deeply your nails dug into his shoulders.
"Fuck!" you gasped, back arching and head falling back against the pillow.
Peter kissed the corner of your open mouth impatiently, missed, kissed your cheek instead, then your jaw, then the side of your neck like he could not decide where he needed to be. His nose dragged against your pulse. "Say it again."
"Peter."
He groaned, mouth brushing yours without quite kissing you.
"My Peter," you added before you could think better of it.
"Shit," he choked. "Don’t call me that unless you want me to lose it."
You held his face between your hands and looked right at him beneath your lashes. "Lose it, Tiger."
Your body dragged tight around him, too sensitive and too wet, every stroke making your stomach jump and your toes curl into the ruined sheet beneath you. Sweat gathered where your chest met his, skin sliding against skin until there was no clean place to hold. Your hands ran down his back and found the hard shift of muscle beneath slick skin, the flex of him as he held himself above you, the raised edge of an old scar near his ribs that made your chest ache even as your body pulled tighter around him.
Your fingers pushed into his hair, catching in the stubborn curls at his crown, and when you tugged, his pace broke.
"D'you like—that?" you managed, shaking against his lips.
“Yes.” He confessed immediately, shoving his face into the side of your neck again as if he could hide from how badly he meant it. “Liked that. God, Don't—hmm— don’t—stop saying it, too. Please. I need—”
His sentence faltered when you clenched around him.
"Need what?" you pushed, and maybe it was cruel, maybe you should've stayed soft with him, but the way he shook above you made your head swim. "Tell me."
Peter laughed, embarrassed, and completely gone.
"I need to hear it again," he mumbled, hips slowing enough to make your breath catch. "Nobody—baby, nobody says it— like you. Nobody says it like they know me."
Your heart twisted, and your eyes burned.
It was then you understood.
There were only a few things Peter Parker let himself have anymore. He let himself have the raggedy apartment with the rusted window lock and the radiator that rattled all winter. He let himself have the suit, hidden in places no one would think to look. He let himself have coffee gone cold on the fire escape, cheap takeout eaten standing over the sink, bruises he pretended were not as bad as they looked, and jokes that never quite burrowed the loneliness underneath.
But his name was different.
His name was not something the world gave him anymore. Not knowingly or graciously. Not with your hands in his soft curly hair and your body warm beneath his, not with your voice trembling around each vowel and consonant like it belonged to you too. It had been so long since anyone had known him enough to say his name with familiarity, with love, with want, with worry, with need.
And he was still moving, dragging the words out of you with every deep roll of his hips, still looking at you like he was two seconds away from begging on his knees if that was what it took. His mouth hovered near your throat, his nose brushing your pulse each time he sank into you, like even your heartbeat saying he was there was something he needed to listen to.
So you gave it to him.
"Peter," you cried, louder this time. "My Peter."
He lost the rhythm but found it again, rough enough to make the bed knock once against the wall, then again. His hand dropped to your thigh and hitched it higher against his side, opening you up until you cried out. Your skin tingled everywhere he touched you. Your stomach pulled tight. The place between your legs was slick and swollen and loud, every thrust pushing wetness between your bodies until you could hear it, until the sound made your face burn and his hips stutter.
Peter's focus dropped where you were connected for one hot second, and the look that crossed his face almost finished you by itself.
"Geez," he breathed, then looked back at you like he needed to watch your face or he would completely lose his mind. "You hear that? You hear how wet you are for me?"
You nodded frantically. "You’re so deep. You’re so good. You’re making me feel so good."
His mouth dropped open against your temple.
"Again."
"You’re good," you stressed, softer but no less wrecked. "I love you, Peter, so much. Wish—wish you could see yourself. You look— so damn good—when you let me have you like this."
He kissed you so hard it almost hurt.
It was messy, all tongue and teeth and panting into each other’s mouths. He swallowed your moans like he needed them. His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with the same frantic lack of patience, and your back arched so hard at the first firm circle your chest dragged against his. The pressure was too sharp after already coming once. Your legs started shaking around him again, heels digging uselessly into the backs of his thighs as your second orgasm started to build fast and unbearable.
"Baby, I’m-I'm close"
"Me too,” You clung to him, frantic from the steady pressure of his fingers and the drag of him inside you. "I can feel it."
"Say my name— when you come," he urged, the words nearly falling over each other. "Please—Please, I need to hear it. Need to know—it’s me making you feel like this."
Your chest tightened, but there was no room to make it gentle. Not with him moving like that. Not with his fingers rubbing you in tight, desperate circles while his hips drove into you, not with the wet slap of skin against yours.
Your second orgasm hit harder and longer than the first. You gripped him, mouth open, breath catching uselessly before sound finally broke out.
"Peter!" you sobbed, dragging both hands down his back, feeling the muscles jump beneath his slick skin, and pulled him as close as he could get. "Peter, it’s—you. It’s you! Only you!"
He came with a groan against your neck, hips shoved deep, arms wound right around you. He kept moving in shallow, helpless little rolls that made you whimper with each wave of his release.
Your body was too sensitive, still pulsing around him, thighs straining, but that didn't stop you from talking because you could feel what it did to him.
"I’ve got you," you soothed, stroking his hair while his weight settled heavier over you. His curls brushed your cheek every time he tried to breathe. "I’ve got you. You’re here with me. I know you."
A sound left him at that, quiet and exhausted, vulnerable just for your ears.
For a while, you were both content to be tangled in each other's arms.
The air was hot around you. The sheets needed to be changed. Your legs felt weak where they had fallen loose around his hips, and your fingers tingled from how tightly you had been holding onto him. Peter stayed tucked against you, breathing hard into the space above your collarbone, his body still trembling in little aftershocks he could not seem to control. Every so often, his thumb moved against your side in a small, absent stroke, careful now in the aftermath, almost shy with the same hands that had just held you down.
You kissed his temple. "Baby?"
His arms tightened around you immediately, swallowed hard, then lifted himself just enough to look at you. His face was flushed, his eyes still dark, his mouth swollen from yours. He looked embarrassed now, a little scared by how much you had seen, but still yearning to show you more.
"I'm here," he answered from somewhere far away, like he still couldn't believe someone called for him and meant him. "Yeah. I’m here. I love you."
"Peter Parker," you cradled his jaw, one thumb sweeping the apple of his cheek gently. "You're here, and I love you, too."
His eyes fluttered at the touch, the tenderness, and then a smile broke across his face before he could hide it, wide, warm, and unbearably young. It tucked into one cheek first and brought out the crinkles at the corners of his eyes.
For a second, he looked younger than the bruises, younger than the suit, younger than all the years he had spent without anyone to call him home.
If only he and the world had been kinder to him, you achingly thought.
You barely had time to spiral in that thought before he leaned down and let himself have a couple more things: a kiss against your lips and his name between you.
Pairing: Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter x F!Reader
WC: 9.6k
Summary: Dex keeps using your apartment as a hideout.
Warnings: 18+, Stalking, Slow(ish) burn, Service Top!Dex, Controlling!Dex, Let's not forget Dex is manipulative and bad...and hotttt, Mentions of blood, Oral (AFAB receiving), Fingering (AFAB receiving), PIV, UNPROTECTED (wrap it up), Creampie, tiny bit of biting, No use of Y/N, Reader has a praise kink, Reader also has feeling of shame around this, 'This' being having sex with a dangerous man, lol Breaking and entering (should i tag that?), he's obsessive and possessive, calls reader: good girl, baby, sweetheart, dirty girl, He lowkey turns into a whimpering mess at the end
Your hands tremble as the tea kettle on the stove screams. How long had that been going off? Your thoughts are racing, skin cold but sweating, heart still pounding. Blood...you can't even think about the blood.
There's a masked man in your apartment.
You can feel his presence from behind you. It's strong, it's dangerous, it's consuming. His breathing is labored, jagged, like he's in pain. A part of you hopes he's in pain. His blood soaks into your couch that you seriously doubt you'll ever be able to get out. His legs spread out like he's getting comfortable, his hand clutching against the seeping wound. You couldn't tell how bad it was, only the amount of blood dripping gave you an indication it was more than a scratch. You wanted to turn and look at him more but you were frozen, staring at the clock of your oven. 3:03 AM. You were scared to turn and look at him, but you wanted to.
What was that saying, curiosity killed the cat?
"Turn it off." his voice startles you out of your thoughts, jolting your body into action. You pull the screaming kettle off the stove, and go straight into auto pilot. You make tea.
Maybe in a few months from now, if you survive this, you'll laugh at the absurdity of this situation. A masked man, a wanted and dangerous vigilante, had crashed into your apartment through the window. AVTF sirens blared down the street. When he'd crashed into your bedroom through the window, you'd let out a scream, tumbled out of your bed, your foot twisted in your own damn comforter, caught like a hare in a trap. He had the audacity to chuckle as you scrambled for your phone, only to throw your own stuffed animal at your hands, knocking your phone away before he hoisted you up from the ground. His blood smearing against your skin, his rough gloves gripped your wrists together, as he pulled your through your apartment like he knew the layout. He'd set you in front of your stove. Told you to make him a cup of tea. A cup of tea.
So here you were, pouring the piping hot water into a ridiculous looking cat mug. You didn't have any pets of your own, too much work for you, but that didn't mean you didn't enjoy animals and animal themed things. Why were you being self conscious of a mug? This was for a criminal, a murderer, a psychopath. You shouldn't care what he thinks of your interior or animal themed mugs. You should be tossing the scalding hot water in his face and bolting out the door right now --
Your name comes from the masked man, in low warning. He's reading your thoughts, he has to be.
You grip the handle of the mug, trying to control your shaking hands. It was a hard feat as you carefully tip toe towards him, hands trying to keep steady. He nods to the coffee table where he's got his dirty boots crossed on top. You set it down and take another careful step back. Steam rises in the dark from the kitten mug, the moonlight illuminating from your windows into the living room. It's just enough to see, but not enough to get a good enough look on him. Not that you can. He's masked. But you can tell how big he is. His broad shoulders rising up and down with labored breaths. His left hand clutched against his side, the dark blood you can see just fine.
With a dry mouth, you start with a creak, "I...I think you should go."
The man barely shakes his head, making no movement towards the tea. Just sitting there. Bleeding and watching. A flash of irritation shoots through you.
"Yes." you hiss out firmly, "Listen, I don't know what you're doing here, in my apartment of all places, but I can't help you. I won't...I won't tell anyone you were here. I don't know you, I can't even see your identity -"
"You know who I am." He lets out a breathless laugh and adjusts his posture, his feet coming down to the floor. He leans his back away from the cushions, getting a tad bit closer to you. It makes you take a step back, keeping the coffee table in between you two like that'll protect you.
Huffing, you start again, "Still. I don't have anything to fix you." You gesture to his wound.
"You wanna fix me?"
Shame and embarrassment burn your face, his tone shooting something liquid down your spine. What the hell was his problem? Fear was slowly being replaced with anger.
"No. I don't. Not interested, Bullseye." There, you said it. You knew who he was. There were only so many masked vigilantes in blue suits. Suddenly your heart ached for Daredevil, or even Frank. Not that you'd met either, but you would've felt safer if one of them crashed into your window late at night. Bullseye was a maniac, he was unhinged. Barely contained himself and didn't care who got in the way. He had no morale.
Fear started up again, the bravery and courage quickly shrinking as his name left your mouth, remembering exactly who you were dealing with.
"Dex."
"Huh?" Shock renders you dumb, your brain firing in so many directions at once.
"Call me Dex." he almost sounds amused, watching you try to keep up with him and your own thoughts, "Listen, I need a place to lie low. AVTF is crawling tonight. I'm hit. I'm beat."
Silence folds into the space as you assess each other. Worry swirls in your eyes, something Dex can see in the low light.
"I won't hurt you."
Your lower lip trembles, "I don't trust you." You glance at your front door for a moment, still trying to figure a way out of this mess.
"Good. You shouldn't. Go back to your room."
Despite your better judgement, you turn your back to him, awareness prickling into your skin, the weight of his gaze following you. It stays even after you close your bedroom door and lock the handle. You doubt a flimsy door lock could do much against a man his size, but it gives you the illusion of a touch of safety. Trembling limbs carry you back into your bed, burying yourself deep in covers like you used to when you were kid, scared of monsters in the dark. The difference from then and now is that you have one sitting in your living room, eyes glued to your bedroom door. And you hadn't even registered he'd said your name.
Balancing your phone in between your shoulder and ear, you sigh, "Well, no, I don't know what happened, but I just need someone to come by and look at it, please? It's been three days since it's been broken. You're the last company I could get ahold of." A hint of desperation seeps into your voice. Your keys jam into your lock and you groan in frustration. Ever since you'd replaced the locks, the keys have a habit of sticking. Finally, it clicks and your door is open. Tossing your keys on your counter, you hold your phone in a better position.
The window company on the other end explains that your apartment building should be providing a window, that you needed to call your maintenance department. Another groan of frustration escapes you.
"I hear you. I've tried, trust me. They can't get a new window in until next week. I can't sleep knowing I have an open area in my apartment where anyone could get in. Or anything for that matter! What if it starts raining?"
"I'm sorry ma'am, but legally we can't replace windows on any building without a permit or your apartment complex paying our company as a whole. We could fix your window if you were the owner of your apartment, but because you rent-"
"Forget it. Thank you for your time." You hang up and close your eyes, head tilting up to the ceiling. You knew it wasn't their fault. You weren't trying to be rude, but you could cry with how frustrated you were over the situation. You hadn't had a good night's rest in three days. Bullseye screwed that up for you. Opening your eyes, you immediately cringe at the stained couch. Still had to get rid of it. You had tried your best getting the blood out, but you weren't exactly equipped with blood destroying chemicals. Another thing Bullseye had screwed up. Moving into your bedroom, you assess the almost clear plastic you covered the window up with. It wasn't the best, but it kept enough of the outdoor elements out. Another thing Bullseye screwed up.
Anger stirs in your stomach. You can hardly sleep in your own bed because of the broken window, terrified anyone could get in. You can't sleep on the couch with how stained it is. You haven't been able to call a friend over to help you remove the couch, for fear of having to explain this entire thing. What would you even say?
Bullseye, one of the most wanted men in New York City, smashed your window, bled all over your couch, and left early in the morning? You can imagine the questions. Why didn't you call the Task Force?
Well, you see, you answer your imaginary detective, I was scared he would kill me before I got to the phone.
Why did you make him a cup of tea?
Because he asked for it.
Why did you just go to bed?
Because he told me to.
You smack your hand against your forehead, cringing at the thought of arguing with yourself and over the events of the other night. Seriously, what had you been thinking? You blame the shock and adrenaline. Rolling your shoulders, you snap yourself out of your thoughts. Something you had some issues with lately, obviously. Staring across your room at the plastic-barricaded window, you let out a breath. A shower sounded nice, but that was another thing you'd been too nervous to do. What if someone came in while you were in there? Chewing your bottom lip, you decide you'll be fast and bring a change of clothes in the bathroom with you. Gathering your stuff, phone included, you step into your bathroom and lock the door.
The water pelts down onto your skin and you wish with a passion that you could just relax. But you can't, not with what happened a few nights ago and certainly not with that window. You're in and out of the shower in under ten minutes. Clean, but not refreshed. You pull on your sleep shorts and tank top before leaving the barely fogged up bathroom. Stepping into the plush carpet of your bedroom, a slash of fear crosses you. The plastic window has a cut straight down the middle. Your heart crawls up your throat as you freeze at the sight, phone clutched in your hand. Dusk is settling in, the last rays of sun leaving you like the last bit of security and safety before the night.
Trying not to hyperventilate, you press 911 in your phone. Two rings before an operator answers, and you quickly rattle off your emergency, that you think there's an intruder in your house. You step back into the bathroom, trying to be silent as you shut the door and lock it. The operator stays on the line with you, but you can hardly process what she's saying. You're trying to listen to the sounds of your apartment, ear pressing against the wooden door.
"Why is your window not fixed yet?" A deep masculine voice says from right outside, like he's standing the same way you are.
You barely catch a shrill in your throat as you scramble away from bathroom door and in your startle, you drop your phone. You race after your phone, picking it up and almost cry when you see it somehow hung up on the operator.
You hear him sigh lowly, "Are you going to answer me?"
A multitude of emotions race through you, so many you can't settle on a single one or know how to feel. A part of you feels relieved that it's him, and another is scared. You have no idea what his intentions are with you. The operator had said the police were fifteen minutes out. Fifteen minutes of this, whatever this was. It feels like it'll be eternity.
"Bullseye-" you start, your voice wobbly with fear and adrenaline.
"Dex." He interrupts you, still right outside the door.
"Dex." You start again, this time a little bit more confident, "The police are on their way."
"So?"
Shock again, renders you speechless. So? You bite your lip in worry and frustration. Oh God. What if he kills them all? And then you? What will the cops do against someone like him? Someone who can't miss a target. They don't even know who they're up against. You hadn't known either so you couldn't warn them.
"I hear your brain working a mile minute, sweetheart."
Gritting your teeth and steeling your nerves, you practically seethe at the door, "What are you doing here? If you wanted to kill me you should’ve done the job the other night.”
“If I wanted you dead you’d already be. I need a place a lie low again.”
Anger sears through your veins, “My apartment isn’t a damn hotel and if it were you’d owe me a lot! Look at the state of my window and couch!”
“I’ll buy you a new one.”
“My window?” You grind out, incredulous at this conversation. You get closer to the door.
”Your apartment complex should take care of that.”
Your brows pinch with frustration. No one can help you with the window. It must be the build up of anger, from lack of care from practically everyone you’ve spoken to about your window, the lack of sleep, the lack of safety, whatever it is, it builds up and pours out in this single moment.
Without thinking, your brain turned off from your anger, you rush through the bathroom door, not registering how you unlocked the knob so quickly or how fast you seem to be moving. Your hand knocks in the wounded side of Bullseye, his shocked and pained groan rushing out of him with the hit. You push against him further, using the momentum, making him stumble back until you shove him hard enough that there’s space between the two of you.
His eyes are filled with surprise and mirth, his scarred face unmasked. A flash of surprise and attraction rush through you as you glare at him, his lips turned up in a mischievous and smug smirk. His smugness quickly squashes your temporary emotions, back to anger you go. You don’t falter.
”It’s your fault that it’s broken! Your fault I can’t sleep at night, I don’t feel safe, I can’t take a shower longer than ten minutes, I’m—“
A hard knock on the door causes panic and doom to shoot down your spine and in your stomach. Worry etches across your features and you rush towards Dex, hands pushing him gentler, towards the plastic window.
”You have to go,” you whisper to him, urgency filling your voice. He’s letting you push him towards the window until you get just right in front of it.
“NYPD open up!”
You look back towards your bedroom opening, “Just a minute!” Turning back to Dex you gesture to the window hurriedly, “Go!”
You won’t have the lives of these men just doing their job in your hands. Or more blood stains in the apartment. The thought makes you nauseous.
Dex makes a noise of amusement, a smile teasing his lips, “I’ll be right outside. Make sure they don’t get too close to the window.”
You nod frantically and basically push him out as he climbs through the plastic onto your balcony. Running through your bedroom, you shut the door behind you and rush to the front door, opening it up for the three policemen. They look at you in question, and then past you into your apartment. You stiffen. You hadn’t even thought about the bloodstained couch, adjusting your posture to hide the room behind you.
“I’m so sorry, it was a false alarm.” you start, sweat gathering along your brow as you lie to the officers.
”I thought you said someone had cut into your window? That it was broken?” The first officer starts, his hand resting on his gun at his hip.
With a dry throat, you shake your head. Lying is not your best suit and you try to keep a blank face, “No, I’m so sorry, I checked it and it was just torn from the wind.”
The cop gives you a once over, not buying it. “What wind?”
"Well regardless," the shorter cop in the back starts with a much calmer demeanor, "We'll need to sweep your apartment. To make sure you're safe, we can't just leave without checking."
You swallow and stare at them before stepping aside. If you argued, you're sure it'd look even worse than how you're acting now. Suspicious. You stay at the front door as the walk cautiously inside, shutting the door behind you. You pray Dex has left the window, that he's still not out there. Trepidation fills you as the officers get to your couch, the one who was more suspicious of you, turning to look at you for an explanation.
Sweat rolls down your back, "Uh, that was my paint. I've been working on a project."
"A project?" He turns and looks back at the stained couch with slight disgust. It was gross. You needed to get rid of it.
"I don't have a shampooer." You try.
"Hm." He returns to sweeping the living room, looking out at the dying light outside your windows. His gaze settles on the bedroom door, "Is that where your broken window is?"
"I, um, yes. It is. In my bedroom. But really, I just came out of there, you don't have to go in. There's nowhere really for anybody to hide in this apartment." It's true, it was small. New York was expensive to live in.
"Why'd you shut the door?"
You surprise yourself with a calm shrug, "Habit. Trying to keep the elements and bugs to one room."
The officer gets closer to the door, looking back to his two coworkers. They nod, hands on their guns as the officer opens the door, and this is when panic really settles in you. You follow him in, trying to stop him suddenly as he starts towards the damned broken window.
"Wait! Really, it's okay, you don't have to check!"
Your words are useless as he nears closer to the window, hand reaching out to part the plastic, you heart beating in your ears. He pokes his head out and you brace yourself, waiting in dread.
He turns back around. "All clear." He steps away and notices how relief sags your entire body. "You really need to get that fixed."
"Tell me about it," you grumble, keeping an eye on the window. Where had he gone?
Moments later, the officers have left after giving you a long talk about calling and wasting time, but to be assured that you were in good hands if something really did happen. You know, the whole mansplaining thing men did in positions of power. You couldn't wait to be rid of them now for more reasons than one. And that one reason, was gone.
You'd checked the window and the small balcony you had that you'd imagined he would have been standing at. The night air met you and you shudder, quickly ducking back into bedroom. Turning to your bed, you grab the big kitchen knife you had grabbed earlier and a pillow. You yank off your comforter and go back into the bathroom, making a not-so comfy makeshift bed in the bathtub. You felt safer this way, with door being able to lock. Sleep hardly comes.
A week later your window's been fixed, giving you a sense of security back. Though something else has been nagging your mind.
You haven't seen Dex since that night the cops came. Haven't heard a thing on the news. A large part of you is worried, which concerns you in itself. Why would you care about someone like him? After all this trouble he's given you.
There was something that had happened, though. To know that he was maybe still alive. A furniture company had come knocking on your door right after you got home from work, the day after the cop incident. They were called to remove your old couch and replaced with an even better one. Something way too expensive for your own accounts. You'd asked who called and the men frowned, confused at your question, answering with an obvious, 'your boyfriend.' That had put color in your cheeks. You didn't doubt who it could have been, knowing you'd never told anyone about the couch. Remembering his words, 'I'll buy you a new one.'
You close your front door, exhausted with the work week. You were glad it was Friday. Reaching up in your kitchen cabinet, you grab a bottle of wine saved for special occasions. It wasn't really special, but you felt like you could relax for once. Your new couch was something you enjoyed sitting on, despite it reminding you of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. Showered and in your pajamas, you slink down onto the couch, glass of wine and TV on. You make it about thirty minutes with the glass half full before you're out like a light.
Something tickles you awake. If you can call it that. You're drifting in between that soft spot of sleep, hardly conscious, fading in and out. It trails along your collarbone, causing you giggle and stir away. You sigh as it moves down your bare arm, back up, tickling your skin into goosebumps. It feels good. It feels overstimulating in this sleep state you're in. You want more. You want it to stop. Your head rolls to the side, the tickling moving to your cheekbone, dusting over your skin, down your face to your lips. It makes you part them, your tongue dipping out to chase the movement. A suck of breath above you jolts you awake. Your eyes part to see a dark figure above you, shrieking, you scramble up on the couch, feet kicking under you.
Dex watches your reaction to him with amusement, staying still, frozen in time. His hand still lingering in the air from where he was touching you. Oh God, you licked him. Embarrassment stains your face.
"Wh-what the hell are you doing?" you hiss at him, hand pressing against your chest where your heart threatens to burst.
"I see you like the new couch."
You're dumbfounded, really. You hardly know what to do or say with him. You look down at the couch under you and you nod, glancing back up at him. "I was going to say thank you, but it was your fault my couch was ruined in the first place." Speaking of, your gaze trails along him. He seems fine, like he's unharmed, in regular clothes of all things.
Since he hasn't hurt you, yet, you find your confidence. There needs to be some serious boundaries set in place with this man. You stand, a little too close to him, expecting him to move back to accommodate you. He doesn't. Like he likes standing that close to you. You clear your throat and take a small step back, giving yourself some distance from him. He watches you with an unwavering gaze, like he's studying every moment you make. It makes you feel like prey. A shudder racks through you, causing you to look down at your attire, similar to the last time you saw him, you're in small tank top and shorts. You practically feel naked. Crossing your arms over your chest, you look back up at him with a little more conviction.
"You cannot stay here."
"I was just going to ask for some tea." He raises a shoulder in passive shrug.
Pressing your lips together in irritation, you ignore how his gaze flicks down to your lips. "I'm not making you tea."
"Why not? You listened so good last time."
You refuse to acknowledge that.
"You stole my mug. Don't think I didn't notice."
"I wasn't trying to be sneaky about it."
"So, you just stole it without caring?"
"I didn't say that. I cared about it too much, which is why I took it." Dex's smirk comes to life. It makes you want to smack him.
"I liked that mug."
"I know."
You pinch the bridge of your nose, sighing out slowly. Changing the subject, you gesture around the apartment, "How did you even get in? Don't tell me you broke my window again, or I'll be severely upset."
A chuckle releases from him as he shakes his head, "No broken windows. The newer version is much easier to unlock."
You're still. Speechless.
He uses it to his advantage, stepping closer to you, his hand slowly reaching out to pinch a lock of your hair between his fingers.
"Why are you here?" you whisper, watching him watch you.
"Missed you." Another shrug as he twirls the lock of hair in his fingers, inching closer to you. Unease and...something else you refuse to admit burns in your belly. "It's getting harder to stay away. I didn't mean for all this to happen, not like this."
You wet your lips and Dex watches the movement like a hawk. "How would it happen, if you could change it?" Your curiosity burning inside of you. His darkness calling to you like a moth to an open flame. The consuming way he's staring at you. It makes your skin prickle with a whole different reason, heat beginning to crawl under your skin, spreading through your lower belly.
"I'd make sure we met in public. Somewhere you like. That café down the street," his fingers drop your hair, moving to your collarbones, trailing lazily against your skin. You shudder. "You'd order your regular. Hot vanilla latte. With whipcream on top. Light cinnamon dusting. I'd get the same. I always do." You don't know how to process all of this as he's touching you. Your brain turning off with his touch, his breath hitting you as he whispers softly, closer and closer to you, until he's close enough to kiss. He doesn't stop. Two hands on you now like he can't help himself. Your skin burns with want. It's wrong but so good. You're entranced.
"I'd say something about it. Spark the conversation. You'd tell me things about you, things I already know. Your name. What you do for work." his head dips to your throat, an inhale of your scent makes him shudder, his breathing getting heavier, "I'd make you tell me where there's a good pizza place. I already know your answer. I'd ask if you wanted to join me. You'd say yes because why would you say no to me?"
You shiver as his nose brushes up to your ear, his hands just barely grazing against your sides. Like he's still testing if you're going to pull away from him or not. When you don't, he presses his hands into you, fingers spreading like he's trying to touch enough of you all at once. He groans lowly at the contact. You're trembling now, not sure if your body is reacting to the fear of his admittance, or to the burning want of him. Perhaps both.
"How...how is it going to happen now?" your voice is small, breathless.
Dex takes a long inhale, like he's trying to control himself. He raises his head, away from where he was breathing you in, to catch your gaze. His pupils are wide, his hands squeeze you slightly when you look up at him with need. Something he's been fantasizing seeing on your face for a long time now.
His voice is rough, husky, full of want and desperation, it rakes up your body hearing it. "I'm going to sit you on the couch I bought you. You're going to take your shorts off." as he's painting the scene, he's turning you back towards the couch, keeping you facing him. Two small steps backwards and the back of your legs are hitting the cushions. You sit. He watches you darkly as he slowly hooks his fingers under the band of your shorts, pleased when you lift your hips to help him take them down. You're blushing now, watching him with bated breaths.
"You're going to spread your legs and I'm going to kneel." His grip is surprisingly gentle, for such dangerous and calloused hands. It makes you shiver, the contrast of it. The contrast of him. His hands part your thighs, his gaze never leaving yours even as you try to dip away from it as he spreads your legs open. Shame and desire eat at you, the fabric of your underwear doing nothing to hide how wet you are. He kneels.
The sight of this broad shouldered man kneeling in front of you makes you a little light headed. This isn't right, but it feels so good. Dex is reading your expressions, the hitch of your breath, the pink dusted on your cheeks, like he's saving it away. Keeping it in a file in his mind for later. You try not think about it, what he said. Try not to let it talk to you in a way that a part of you likes it, likes that he has an obsession with you, that he's so carnal. That he wants to know everything little thing about you, even the ways you react to him. Especially the ways you react to him. You start to feel yourself want to back out and he knows it already. The palm of his hands petting down your thighs, closer to where you're aching and wanting him to touch. It distracts you again.
He needs you to not think about what's right or wrong. Like he does. He could be a little bit more like you. But you need to be a little bit more like him right now.
Dex tilts his head in a way that feels like a predator pinpointing a weakness. You feel weak to this attraction, this want, this need. Good. It's how he's been feeling about you lately. You bite down on your lip as his thumb gently brushes over the waistband of your ruined underwear. Your core clenches.
"You're going to let me take these off," the way he says it, it's not a demand. It's not even a command. He states it like it's a fact, something that's just going to happen. He isn't reveling in it, he isn't being pushy, he's being honest. And you know that you will. You're going to let him do whatever he wants to do you. You're going to listen to him, because when haven't you?
You nod and he hums, that familiar smirk coming back to his lips. He mocks your nod back to you. "I know, baby. You're going to let me eat you out. You're going to cum on my mouth. And you're going to make a mess."
He hooks his fingers under your panties and you lift your hips again, aiding him without a word. What do you even say to that? You're worried anything you say will sound like begging. He does it slow, and you're not sure if he's doing it to torture you or to give you one last chance to back out. Your hands grip the cushions underneath you, breath quickening as he reveals the evidence of your desire. He sucks in a sharp breath as he lays eyes on you for the first time. You bite back a whimper at his reaction, like he's enamored and in disbelief. You're soaking, pussy painfully clenching with want.
"Fuck." And that's the last you hear from him before he's dipping his head down, latching onto your clit so quickly and precisely that you startle with a cry, hands coming down to grip his head, unsure whether you want to pull him in or push him away from the hard contact.
You try to squirm, but his large hands hook under your hips, holding you to him. He yanks you down close to him. He’s licking you up like he’s starved, he’s firm and unashamed when he groans loudly against you, the vibration of it adding to the stimulation. You let out a loud moan in response, fingers flexing in his hair. His grip tightens on your hips, your reactions causing him to react in fervor.
His tongue flattens to lick up as much surface of you as he can, his tongue coming up your clit, circling around before he’s adding a sucking pressure to it. Your gasp comes out sharp and in shock, fingers flexing against the strands of his hair. He doesn’t stay on your clit for long, drifting his mouth to lick a slow and vicious lick along your slickness. He dips his tongue back down, slipping inside you, nose bumping up against your clit while you grind down into his mouth. You fight a whimper, which catches pathetically in your throat as you rock your hips.
Dex’s dark eyes gaze up at you, the moment causing your thoughts to catch up to you. The weight of his eyes were heavy, you can tell how he's cataloging every moment, every movement, every sound you make. How long has he been watching you? God. What were you doing?
He seems to notice you falter, his tongue dragging back up slowly to your clit, done with teasing and tasting you. He wants to make you cum. Wants to turn your brain off, defy the logic and the fear still inside of you. He latches back onto your clit so accurately that you almost blank out for moment, your hips coming up to squirm away from him. He lets out a groan deep in his chest, as his arms come up to wrap around your thighs, sealing your fate to him.
"Oh, God-" you let out on a broken moan and that seems to encourage him even further. His mouth keeps the pressure around your clit, his tongue adding a flicking motion, up and down, side to side, until he hears which one you like best. Until you're sitting still in his grasp, letting him consume you. That's when he knows he has you.
And you have him. You're so close, his mouth hurling you towards the throes of your pleasure, body subconsciously clinging to him, trying to get what it wants. Your hands are tangled in his hair, like a part of you thinks he's going to lift his head and stop. You're ensuring he'll stay there and finish what he started. Your back arches, your moans eating away at the silence, louder, longer, breathier. Your head tips back before it falls forward, catching his never ending gaze again and that's when you fall apart.
You come hard, vision spotting, the last that you saw clearly was Dex's dark eyes leveling yours right between your thighs. The image burns into your mind as you come down, heart beating through your chest as you heave for air.
He pulls back from your clit, the missing contact makes you want to cry out. His weighted gaze is still on you, never left. Never will. It makes you shy, starting to close your legs on impulse, causing a quiet but sharp, tsk, from him. Reprimanded, you blush, holding your legs open, letting him see the aftermath of your soul crushing orgasm, pussy still pulsing with the aftershocks of it.
"Good girl," he breathes quietly and the praise goes straight through your stomach to your core. The pleasure spiking in your blood. He notices and smirks, his lips coated in your shine. Maybe that's all you needed, some encouragement.
His fingers swipe down the core of your pussy and you bite back another cry. He pushes them back up against you slowly, just missing your throbbing and sensitive clit, parting the lips of your cunt. You watch his eyes grow darker at the sight and his jaw clench as he takes the sight of you in. You can feel the slick of your pleasure and want drip out of you, onto the couch. His other hand comes down to barely brush against your fluttering opening. You suck in a breath as you watch him.
"You made a mess." his fingers coating in your cum as he traces your hole.
Shame paints your face and you fight yourself from shutting your legs again. You start to say something to defend yourself, lips parting, and he shakes his head. He looks happy, lips tipping up in a sharp and dangerous smile.
"I said you would." His fingers push inside of you, making an obscene squelching noise with how wet you were.
Your remark dies, whatever it was you were going to say, and he loves watching your brain go blank for all the right reasons. You don't need to talk or think. He'll do all the decision making from here. All you had to do was listen and be good. And you were good, you were so good. You were good like this, like he knew you'd be. His fingers hook up in you, his weapons against the world now turning into extensions of what he wanted to do to you. He fucks them up into you while his thumb swipes your sensitive clit. His fingers stretch you out in a way that you know will do nothing to prepare you for the real thing. His stature is large, you can only imagine what he has down there, something you haven't seen with his kneeling posture.
Your head tips to your shoulder, like you hardly have the energy or care to keep it up, eye lids drooping. Though, you're still looking at him. His chest swells with pride. You're moaning without thought, pleasure drunk eyes on him, nipples poking through the flimsy fabric of your tank top. The sight of you makes him feel crazy. How long has he pictured this exact scene in his head? Imagined the noises you'd make? The way you'd look with his fingers deep inside of you, legs spread open for only him. His fingers fucking up into you with deep thrusts, thumb still swiping gently on your clit. He can feel your wet pussy clenching around him, pulling him back in and he fights a moan, thinking about it wrapped around his cock. His thoughts about you turning darker as he watches you take what he gives. Your perfect lips fall open to tumble out another moan, his free hand going up to cup your chin. Sharp shock rings through him as you dip your chin to catch his thumb in your mouth, cheeks hollowing, tongue slicking against him. The shock turns into straight primal need.
"You're a dirty girl, aren't you?" his voice is just barely above a whisper, keeping the conversation close, like the two of you are sharing a secret. His other hand still fucking a steady rhythm up into you, each thrust he swipes that thumb harder against your clit. Your hips twitch and you nod, moaning with your tongue and mouth still wrapped around his thumb. His nostrils flare. He didn't expect this. But he likes it. He's corrupting you, he's turning off your logical part of your brain and he's making you into something entirely his.
He keeps fucking his fingers into you with a steady rhythm, each thrust his thumb delivers a swipe against your sensitive clit. He can feel your cunt clench more and more around him, and he is starting to see the telltale signs of when you’re getting close. A flush in your chest and across your cheeks, your moans getting louder and airier, thighs and hips twitching with the stimulation. Your hot mouth lets his thumb go to breathe out his name in a plead.
He groans hearing it, almost whimpering back to you. It makes him feel insane, he has to make you stop chanting his name like that or he’s going to yank the waistband of his pants down and give it to you. He has to make this night last, has to study you more, touch you more. He leans forward, catching your mouth to consume his name and your moans.
You immediately embrace him, something that makes him shudder with need. Your hands wrap around his shoulders, pulling him close to you as your lips part to swipe your tongue against his. He whines into your mouth, the sound going straight to your core, pushing you right to the edge. You cling to him as his fingers keep pushing up into you, hitting a spot that makes a pathetic noise fall from the back of your throat. Dex swallows it, his hand cupping the back of your head to keep your mouth against his as he kisses you senseless while you fall apart.
Your thighs tremble as you come back to your body and reality, heavily aware of Dex’s mouth on your skin. He gently eases his fingers out of you, causing a loud whine to leave you.
An airless laugh leaves him in response as his mouth trails down your neck, “It’s okay, baby. I’ll give you more.”
You shiver at that, not sure how much more you can take. You’re weightless, thoughtless, overstimulated. His hands snake under your back and hips, pulling you to him as his mouth latches onto that sensitive spot on your neck. You moan lowly, rolling your head to the side to give him more room, goosebumps ticking on your skin. He’s lifting you up now, arms wrapped around you, keeping you against him as tight as he can as he stands. Your weak legs wrap around his waist, shaking arms around his neck. You feel where you’re moving, back into the bedroom. His lips move back to yours, catching another kiss from you as he gently eases you down to your mattress.
His fingers grip the hem of your tank top, slowly pulling it up and over your head, exposing you to him fully now. He breathes out, taking you in. Naked and sprawled on the bed just for him, unwound from the orgasms he’d given you. His knees dip onto the bed, and you reach up to touch his shirt. He shakes his head once and you frown.
”I can’t see you?” you ask in a small voice.
Dex stares down at you, your nipples tight in the exposed air. He wants them in his mouth, wants to make you cry out. His gazes goes back to yours. “Not right now. It’s not about me right now.” You didn’t understand, he didn’t want to be distracted when he still had so much to discover about you. Didn’t want your hands and eyes all over him while he was supposed to be mapping your entire body. He wanted his hands, eyes, and mouth on you instead.
You’re not used to this intense amount of attention. You’re feeling shy again, almost like a bug under a microscope. His features soften, realizing he’s losing you again to that logic in your brain.
”I need to see you. I need this. Please understand.” His hands move to either side of you, caging you against him and the bed as he hovers over you, his head dipping down close.
You bite your lip, brow dipping in question. You’ve trusted him this far, though the post orgasms and reality of the situation were weighing into you. Especially now, as you lay naked and vulnerable under him, no doubt in your mind where this was going to end.
You wet your lips, a movement yet again tracked precisely by the man over you. “How’s it going to happen?”
He’s gaze flicks back to your eyes, pleasure and mirth filling his. He knows what you’re doing. Giving him the go ahead while asking for reassurance. He likes this, this game you’re playing, like you were playing earlier. He leans back down to you, mouth just brushing above yours.
"I'm going to kiss you again." His lips capture yours, pulling you in a kiss that leaves you dazed and breathless and wanting him all over again. Your hands come up to grasp his broad shoulders, causing him to shudder. It was strange, he wanted you touching him but it was so distracting. He wanted it too much. So he leans back, breaking the kiss, grabbing your hands gently, easing your hands and arms down over your head. He's got them pinned with one of his. You test his grip, with a pout on your face. He laughs again, want and need making his voice darker, "Later, sweetheart. Later." He likes this too, having you manhandled onto the bed, pinned with nowhere to go, looking up at him with such need.
"You're going to keep your hands there like a good girl." He watches with slight amusement as your keen with the praise. He hardly has the patience anymore when you buck up your hips to grind against his length. He hisses out at the contact, his own hips twitching in response, rolling forward to grind down into you. You let out a small moan and Dex shudders as he stares down to where you're connected against him. His free hand goes down to cup one of your breasts, earning him a gasp and your back arches, trying to give him more of you. He swipes a thumb over your nipple before he's dipping down to suck into his hot mouth with searing lick.
Dex's grip on your hands leave you, but you keep them where he left them. For fear of disobeying of him. You hadn't tried it yet, maybe you never would. Listening and obeying him felt so much better. But you did ache to touch him, to pull him into you, to dig your fingers in his hair and keep his mouth against you. You didn't. You were good.
His hands roam and grope you, mapping your body like he's trying to memorize every inch of your skin. How you feel against him. His mouth switches to your other peaked nipple, giving it the same attention. His fingertips trailing down the sides of your ribs, making you squirm, his clothed and hard length still pressed against your naked and sensitive pussy. The texture of his pants is almost too much, too harsh, but you can't get enough. It's just like his attention on you. He rocks into you, groaning at the stimulation. He's been leaking and throbbing since he first broke into your apartment. Months ago. He remembers the night he finally made contact with you. A miscalculation on his part. He hadn't meant to broke the window. Hadn't meant to scare you. But he liked it. Liked how you trembled in fear and still listened to him. That's when he knew. Knew you were perfect.
He moans against your skin, his mouth trailing down your sternum now, licking, sucking, kissing. His hands roaming still. You feel dizzy with the overstimulation, arms trembling over your head as you grip your own hands together to keep them there. Dex eases up, lips puffy and red, eyes glassy and dark with lust. If he had his camera he'd take a picture of you right now, to remind him of this moment. Skin flushed, hair a mess, sprawled out on your bed just for him. Staying still just for him. He takes a breath to steady himself.
"I'm going to fuck you now."
It's soft, the way he says it, like a part of him can't believe it. Again, like earlier, he delivers it in such a way where it's not demand. Not a threat. Not menacing, or dark. It's a soft fact. Like there's nothing you can do change it, and like he knows there is nothing you'd do to change it.
But you answer him anyway.
"Please, Dex." you breathe out, the raw unfiltered need for him showing through your tone in such a way that makes his eyes grow dark.
He makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat before he's tugging his shirt off and over his head. You watch with curiosity and awe, his muscles moving with his body, reminding you of just how dangerous he is. Scars litter across his torso as his muscles flex and move with every moment he makes. The wound that got the two of you in this mess, still healing at his left side. A dark yellow bruise surrounding it. He leans back, his fingers hooking at his waistband, his focus zeroed in on your expressions. He wants to see how you react to him. Wants to see the way you look at him for the first time. The evidence of his desire pressed harshly against the seam of his pants, doing nothing to really show you just how big he is until he peeling away his pants. No underwear. The fact makes your mouth dry and heartbeat quicken. You see a light dusting of his happy trail as your eyes travel down lower, lips parting as you take him in. He's rock hard, thick and throbbing. Precum dripping from his pink tip. You subconsciously wet your lips and Dex makes another pleased sound. He'll get your mouth on him later.
He doesn't let you take the sight of him in for long, before he's parting your legs and crawling on the bed in between them. Your thighs shake with anticipation, hips jolting when his skilled fingers swipe through your slick once more, like he's still making sure you're ready enough for him. He takes a steady breath, as he looks down at your exposed cunt, catching a groan at the sight of you, cock jumping with need. He hitches his hips up, sliding the tip up against you, teasing the both of you while getting himself wet with you. He groans at the contact, his length spreading you open, dragging his cock against you. You moan, hips raising to meet him as you feel just how long and thick he is. You would shudder at the thought if you weren't aching for him. Dex braces his hands on either side of you, head hanging low so he watch where you two meet. He lifts his hips, catching his tip just barely at your entrance as you rolls your hips down. Your breath catches and he starts to ease in slowly, the stretch and the burn beginning. A whimper escapes you as he keeps pressing, the pressure pulling noises out of you that you didn't know you had.
"Easy, baby. Relax." his voice is shaking, like he's trying to hold himself back, his gaze coming back up to catch your expression. Your brows are furrowed, mouth parted, chest stuttering with the air you're trying to pull in. He keeps shifting forward. He drops down to his elbows so his upper body is pressed more against you, his mouth coming to catch yours. You let out a whimper into his mouth and suddenly he shoves forward, done being nice about it at all. You let out a shrill, hands coming down to grip his shoulders, nails digging in. He lets out a devastated moan against your mouth, breaking the kiss with pleased hiss.
"Fuck. I'm sorry, sweetheart. Fuck." His hips stutter, his forehead coming down to press against your shoulder as the initial shock and pain turn into burning desire. "I couldn't hold it anymore, you feel so fucking good." his hips roll deep into you, pulling a sharp gasp from you as he hits your cervix, fingers digging into him again.
His mouth bites down into your shoulder, as he whines into your skin. This wasn't going according to plan but he couldn't stop. Your pussy clenching around him so tightly, so slick and warm and perfect. He could cry. He drags his hips back before he's snapping them back up into you, your moans quickly turning into something he needs to hear, to feel. To have. His pelvis grinds against your clit before he's snapping his hips back and forth, his own mouth spilling obscene noises and things he can't believe he's saying to you.
"So good. So good, fuck, I'd never thought - never imagined how good," he whines, mouth leaving kisses and licks across your skin, anywhere he can get as he fucks into you, loving the way your nails dig into him, how you touch him. "How good you'd be."
His words make you moan and clutch to him, hands digging into his hair now as his cock drags inside of you, stretching you out and filling you up. He's heavy on top of you, keeping you pinned against him and the bed, his thrusts taking the air out of you with each push. You can hardly catch up with what happening, how he's talking to you in such a whimpering tone, it makes your skin burn with desire. How long had he thought about this? His mouth catches yours to steal your breath and kiss, before he pulling back, his fingers digging into your hips, pulling you down to meet his thrusts. Your vision nearly goes black as your eyes rolls back.
"So pretty, baby. Taking my cock. God. F-fuck." he growls out into your ear before he's looking down at you, watching you take him. He licks a stripe up your throat, nipping your jaw before he soothes it with a kiss. Hands and mouth and cock branding you in a way that you know you'll never escape the feelings from. Even his words.
You can't say much of anything with the way he's delivering his hips into you, the pleasure ballooning in your belly as he drags you closer and closer to the end. "Dex," you whine, his name the only thing your brain can settle on.
It spurs him into a furious snap of his hips, the slap of your skin and obscene slick coating him filling the room with your moans and cries. His arms wrap around your torso, pressing you close against him, bear hugging you while he keeps fucking you into oblivion. He's unhinged in the way he fucks you, like he can't stop, can't help himself. His own brain finally turned off, debased into a creature of need. Not a creature with everything under control, you under control. Himself under control. This is his most human form and you've brought it out of him.
His gaze captures yours, his brown eyes glassy with unshed tears, the sight shocking you before you're pulling him into a kiss. He whimpers into it, hips stuttering. He pulls back with a begging voice, "Tell me you need me." his lips just barely leaving.
You moan out, legs wrapping around his hips to keep him against you. You're so close, the pleasure and pressure building deep inside you with every thrust he delivers.
"Tell me." he whispers again, fingers gripping onto you in a way that you know will bruise later.
"I need you, Dex." you have your own form of whine in your voice now, panting as you get closer, "Dex-"
He interrupts you, "Tell me to never leave. That you won't leave me."
His admittance makes your breath stutter, heart flutter. The obsession he has on you is clear enough to you now, and you don't hate it. You're curious by it. Morbidly so. You know you shouldn't want it, but it makes your blood yearn and want with such force that it turns out the logic and the fear of it out your mind. Your pussy clamps down on him and he almost chokes.
"I won't-" you gasp, fingers digging into his back, "Dex, don't leave, please don't. Don't stop."
He revels in your begging, his voice dark, "Good girl. Now give it to me."
It's like he already has your body trained, already knows it's tells. Already knew how close you were. Knew what would send you off the edge. Your body seizes up as you let out a cry, hands gripping him tightly against you as you break on a moan. Pure euphoria rips through your body, cunt convulsing around his thick cock, making his hips stutter with a cry of his own, your orgasm pushing him over the edge. His head drops into the crook of your neck, both your bodies trembling as you come down from the white hot explosion inside of you. Your chest heaves, limbs boneless as you feel his cock pump inside of you. You feel full and peaceful. Not worried about the consequences of your actions just yet.
Dex lets out a pleased sigh, holding you still against him, making no move to remove his softening cock out of you. He nuzzles his nose up your neck, breathing you in as you both settle into this new time and reality. Your fingers find themselves drawing swirls and meaningless things on his back, earning goosebumps on his skin. He shudders against the stimulation, enjoying the feel of your hand on him.
You're the first to speak after a few minutes of this bliss, "I want my cat mug back."
"You're not getting it back." He smiles against your skin, "Unless you come back to my place."
Lois never paid mind to her neighbors; no need for awkward small talk or brief greetings in the hallway. They just existed, and she was fine with that.
However, she hadn't expected you.
You stood in front of her, awkward as you held out the plate full of cookies. You shifted from one leg to another, unsure. It was obvious whatever introduction you came up with was lost within your anxiety.
Her head tilted as Lois took you in, her gaze curious as it swept across your appearance. You gulped.
"Um, hi, I wanted to come over and introduce myself. I just moved in across from you. I also brought cookies." You held up the plate, gesturing to the delicious-looking treats with an awkward smile.
You kind of reminded her of Clark with the way you rambled, except ten times more anxious and also a lot smaller. It was a shame he wasn't there to meet you, too busy off gallivanting with his superhero friends, no doubt saving the world again. She imagined he would like you. She could already picture the both of you rambling about your interests to each other. The thought made something warm bubble up in her chest.
"Oh, uh, thank you." She took the plate from your arms, her hands skimming over yours for just a second, but it was enough to feel the warmth of your skin, the softness of it.
She wanted more.
"I'm Lois Lane," she introduced herself and watched as your eyes widened and your mouth fell open in pure awe.
"Like the journalist?" The sudden excitement had her stumbling for the right words to say, and she slowly nodded.
"Yeah."
"Oh my gosh, I am such a huge fan! Your writing is absolutely incredible!"
Now Lois wasn't the type to believe in fate or love at first sight, but she was pretty sure this was the closest thing to it. How was she supposed to go on knowing you were just across the hallway from her? How was she supposed to live?
"Golly—" Fuck, Clark was going to love you. "I can't believe I'm meeting you. Oh wait, this is probably weird. Sorry, I'm just excited."
"No, no," she shook her head, smiling like an idiot as she reassured you. "It's okay. It's not often I get to meet fans."
"Oh! I gotta go now; it was really nice meeting you!"
"Mhm, it was lovely to meet you too." She watched in silent disappointment as you turned around and headed back to your apartment, disappearing behind a door she so desperately wished didn't exist.
Never mind, this was definitely love at first sight.
She wondered if Clark would ever be open to the idea of having a third. Who was she kidding? He was going to take one look at you and melt. She might as well just order a bigger bed already.
Clark would absolutely hate arguing with you. Like, what do you mean he has to sleep on the couch because he was reckless and got hurt? No, what about his cuddles? His kisses? Guys, he can't live without at least one makeout session per day, so you bet your ass he's getting on his knees and begging for forgiveness. Unless he's being stubborn, which will only last for an hour at most, and then he'll get on his knees.
Clark found you in the bath, completely surrounded by bubbles and what could only be the biggest, roundest bath bomb he'd ever seen in his life. You looked completely content, with your eyes closed as you submerged yourself face up in the water, letting the outside world fade away.
This was where you belonged: in the water. Where you could float all day long and just let all of your worries melt away.
You didn't even notice him leaning against the doorway, looking down at you with the widest smile, his dimples on full display.
"Well, someone looks happy." He sat down next to the bath, not caring if his shirt got wet as he leaned over and took your hand in his, an action you immediately reciprocated, your hand lightly squeezing his—a wordless hello.
You both stayed like that for awhile, simply existing together in mutual silence.
"Dude—"
"You did not just call me dude." He sounded offended, maybe a bit dramatic, but still offended nonetheless.
"Would you rather me call you bro?" You giggled and sat up, not caring to hide your body from him. He'd seen it before anyway, and you watched as his gaze flickered down to your exposed breasts before snapping back up to your face.
"The love of your life has a nice ring to it, actually." His gaze flickered down again, unashamed.
"Dude, stop staring at my boobs."
"You know I was going to, but since you called me 'dude' again, I've decided not to."
Your expression fell blank. "Oh, wow. My boyfriend is a pervert."
"For your boobs? Yeah, I mean, look at them. Absolutely perfect."
You rolled your eyes and leaned forward, unplugging the drain and then standing up.
"You're a dork." You snorted.
Clark didn't hesitate to grab the closest towel and hand it to you, watching as you wrapped it around your body. He stepped back, letting you step out of the tub without issue. "You know I actually heard that letting your body dry naturally is really good for your skin."
You stared at him, unimpressed. "No, you didn't."
"No, I didn't."
A/N: here's a little drabble I never got to finishing. The ending is a little abrupt but y'all will live. Love you <3
summary: returning home to smallville means enduring sunday mass until a beautiful woman in a suit starts looking back. maybe church isn’t so unbearable after all.
word count: 1.8k
tag list: @punksnotdeadbutiam, @unabashedlyinlovewithyou,@whotfisthatsblog,@wildernessmuse, @starwarsbian, @lilacsandlavenderhaze, @florayli, @gingerfemme22, @peachyvillehorror, @cerezzzita, @kryptidfiles, @garrettgr4h4m, @rynwritesstuff, & @bellathebookdevouer | wanna be added?
content warning: 18+ only!!! STRANGERS TO LOVERS. church setting, religious themes, flirting, slow burn, sexual tension, and pathetic lesbian yearning. soft dom clark i adore you. oral sex, fingering (both reader receiving), and tribbing. they do it in the church!!!!!!! god bless 🙏🙏🙏 not proofread AT ALL, i apologize. i had to write this with one hand ;)
a/n: hiiii everyone!! i hope i’m not getting too annoying by posting so many fics lately. i’ve just been extra motivated and trying to write more before my life gets busy again. this fic was so much fun to write. i hope you guys enjoy it as much as i did. if there’s any glaring issues, please let me know. love you all <333 comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated.
LISTEN TO THE SONG FOR THE FULL EXPERIENCE
Going to Smallville to visit your family is often exhausting. Miserable, even—especially when they force you to attend church.
Religion is a fickle thing. It always has been.
No matter how many cities your family has moved to, every single one somehow feels exactly like the last.
Despite being an adult now, you still have to get dressed in your Sunday best, do your hair, and pretend you haven’t changed since the day you moved out.
Sunday mass is about to begin, and of course, your father chose the pew directly in front of the altar.
You think about strangling him.
As families and the occasional lone worshipper begin filling the pews, your mother whispers something about manners into your ear, and you tune her out.
You have no desire to like, speak to, or interact with any of these people in any way.
But then the organ begins to play a gentle melody, and you rise with the congregation. You breathe in, watching a tall, middle-aged man in ornate garments speak with reverence.
Your eyes wander around the church until they find a rather tall woman sitting across the aisle from two older people who appear to be her parents.
Her hair is jet black, with a perfectly shaped curl falling across her forehead. She’s wearing a suit, a tie, and a pair of worn boots. This strange woman looks like she could carry the weight of the world.
When you sit back down, your eyes stay on her, intrigued. You would have remembered her from your mother’s gossip months ago.
You wonder if she can feel your eyes on her.
She turns her head and looks.
Fuck.
She can.
You make eye contact with the beautiful stranger, letting her gaze meet yours. Something electric builds in your chest. She looks at you like she already knows you.
Before your face grows too warm, you look away quickly, biting back a smile as your curiosity continues to bloom. Now, you can feel her eyes lingering on you.
You force yourself to focus on the priest as he announces:
“May we find peace in the hearts we open and the kindness we offer.”
Slowly, you look back at her, almost as if you’re afraid.
And she smiles.
It’s the kind of smile that makes your entire body tingle.
Maybe coming back wouldn’t be so bad.
Over the next two Sundays, you see her again.
By the end of every sermon, you can feel the tension building inside your body, constantly imagining what she would do to you. When it’s time to be blessed, you always stand in line behind her, purposefully “accidentally” bumping into her.
You catch yourself on her arm as she turns around, your hand lingering against her skin. Something in her gaze tells you to leave it there. Slowly, you pull your hand away, dragging your nails lightly against her flannel.
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
It becomes a game you play, chasing after this woman whose name you don’t even know until you can’t bear it anymore.
Eventually, you sit in the same aisle with her, no parents to witness your desperation. She sits on the end while you sit in the middle.
A young man approaches, asking for donations.
“Do you have any money for a donation?”
She greets him with that same gentle smile, casually pulling out her wallet and placing a twenty-dollar bill into the basket.
The sight makes your chest ache.
The young man eagerly thanks her before asking if she’d like her name written in a book commemorating their donations.
“Clark Kent.”
Her voice carries a warm Southern accent. It tastes like honey. You wonder how it would sound lower, huskier, as she leans over you.
“God bless you.”
“I have a donation, too,” you suddenly blurt out.
You stand, smoothing down your skirt before stepping forward. The man directs his attention toward you as you place your donation into the basket, bending slightly in front of her.
You hear Clark’s breathing hitch.
He asks for your name, and you give it to him quietly.
Afterward, you sit closer to her without acknowledging her yet.
Then you clear your throat.
“You’re always this generous?”
Clark turns toward you, only smirking as she raises an eyebrow. You can see it from the corner of your eye.
“Only when I’m blessed with the opportunity.”
You continue listening to the priest’s words. He knows you by name now, considering how often you’ve been attending Mass.
Your parents are overly pleased that you’ve returned to worship.
Except you notice something.
Clark hasn’t shown up.
The ceremony is halfway over.
You accept that your connection with a random stranger has finally ended, just like you expected. Still, you can’t help feeling heartbroken.
Pathetic as it is.
After mass, you give up. You glance down the aisle one more time before standing and walking toward the door, your purse resting on your shoulder as you pull it open.
On the other side, you’re surprised to find her standing there, especially when she walks into a secluded room to the right.
Curious, you follow her inside, slipping in quietly so you don’t startle her.
When you enter, you find Clark standing in front of the burning candles, carefully studying the flames. You decide to stay, stepping beside her to light one of your own.
You place it down and pretend to pray, refusing to acknowledge her presence like always.
A wave of disappointment washes over you when she turns toward the door, closing it behind her.
The lock clicks.
You turn around.
She’s facing you now, smiling.
“I was wondering when you’d finally follow me.”
Her soft blue eyes are bright, illuminated by the candlelight behind you.
“I’m supposed to be praying.”
She steps closer, standing directly in front of you with a hunger in her expression.
You open your mouth to speak, but she cuts you off, her knuckles hesitantly grazing yours.
You want her.
You want her so badly.
Everything else you’ve ever wanted suddenly feels small in comparison.
She chuckles softly.
“Oh, yeah? About what?”
In a breathless whisper, you answer:
“You wouldn’t want to know.”
“Maybe I do.”
You’re not sure who makes the first move.
Both of you collide into each other, lips devouring. Clark wraps an arm around your waist, lifting you.
Your legs anchor around her as she carries you to a table nearby. Her lips are moving downward to your neck, relishing each thrum of your heart. She takes her time lingering on your neck, marking you.
In a heartbeat, your hips are pinned ruthlessly against the edge of the table. She begins savagely unbuttoning your shirt as she works her way down.
You faintly hear hushed vespers on the other side. The shifting weight of a kneeling tuffet below the pews against the floor startles you.
The congregation must be praying.
And as they fall to their knees to pray with the Almighty Lord, Clark gets on hers.
This was so wrong.
So fucking wrong.
You shudder.
“We shouldn't..”
Clark smirks, hiking up your gown to note that you weren’t wearing any layers.
The sudden burst of her warm breath covers your core.
“We should…”
Licking her lips, “Plus, who is God to deny the creations of his greatest gift?”
She doesn’t warn you before she dives in, one stroke up your slick slit, making you arch.
Her mouth is relentless, using her tongue to explore you. She licks you open, flicking your clit, increasing the pressure. You groan, the soles of your heels digging into her back.
You run your hands through her curls, giving her praises.
“God, Clark, please.”
She doubles down on your center. Her tongue sinks into you, and it feels like she has two tongues.
You moan loudly as she looks up at you like you’re holy.
Who needs God when you have a savior that answers?
She rams two fingers into your hole, returning to your clit with ungodly speed.
Before you can think, she stands up, roughly fucking her fingers deep, and covers your mouth with her free hand, trapping your gasps.
“Be a good girl and stay silent. Don’t want them to hear you, do we?”
You attempt to nod in your bliss.
As she looks down on you, you realize the height difference. It makes you clench around her fingers.
Clark twists her fingers while thumbing your clit, feeling that you’re getting closer.
“That’s it, honey… Come for me.”
Your hips roll, throwing your head back as you enter a world of pleasure, shaking when you come.
Trembling after letting you ride it hard, a whine escapes you when her fingers leave you. Placing them into her mouth, she cleans your juices off.
"Heavenly."
Incapable of mumbling words, your hands reach for her belt and she taunts,
“Impatient, aren't we?”
You frantically claw at her buckle, but when you fail at that, you move to her shirt buttons.
“I need you.”
She stills your hands, grabbing your wrists, smiling devotedly at you, tilting her head.
“Patience, my darling.”
You stare up at her, watching her unbuckle her trousers, pushing them down with her boxers.
Once they’re pooled at her ankles, she shoves her body in between your legs and presses your cunts together. Eyes widening at the briefest contact, the friction sends you over the edge.
Clark lifts you higher onto the table, resting your legs against her shoulders, prompting you to whimper.
Although the table is almost dangerously narrow and you can feel the heat of the candles radiating on your skin, you lose yourself in the moment.
She groans deeply, abruptly burying her face in your neck.
“Quiet.”
You nod, moaning as the tip of your clit grazes her, throbbing. She grinds back against you even harder.
The table creaks with each of your frantic movements, and you don’t seem to care about staying quiet anymore. Her hand roams your body, drawing you closer. She leaves no part of you untouched.
When her touch intensifies, you shiver, digging your fingernails into her back, leaving scratch marks you hope will last.
“Gosh, you feel so good,” Her voice hoarse in your ear.
You undulate, surrendering your hips to match her cadence, “I’m… so… fuck, I’m so close.”
She vibrates with a growl, kissing your neck again.
“I-I know, sweetie… Wanna come with me?”
You combust before pleasure surges throughout your entire body, washing over you and out your fingertips. Your cunt twitches as her thighs squeeze too, her thrusts becoming sloppy.
She drives her pelvis into you one more time.
“Oh, fuck...”
Soon she comes fast, heavy. It leaks all over you, dripping down your thighs.
Amidst the quiet few seconds of holding each other close and recovering, she pulls away to laugh against your shoulder.
Imagine Bullseye saving Readers life, whether it's accidental or purposeful, and them tracking Dex down to break into his apartment and give him a little thank-you gift basket. Like imagine it's full of baked goods and even some nice knives for him and a little note that says "thank you" with a cute little smiley face next to his bullseye symbol <3
Summary : Benjamin Poindexter confesses that he has been obsessively fantasizing about a domestic future with you.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Fluff!!!! (Maybe flangst?) Domestic but still unhinged Dex, obsessive love, possessive relationship, reader is mentioned to be a PhD student in forensic psychology (no age is mentioned), codependency, romanticized violence, injury care, talks of marriage, future children talk, brief mention of breeding kink and sex is implied (but it’s for set up I swear), established relationship, hurt/comfort, Dex's version of a nuclear family is a bit unhealthy but he means well!! (Let me know if I miss anything!) set right after the ending of DDBA Season 2.
Word Count : 9.8k
Requested by : multiple people asking for Dex fluff!
Notes : this is my attempt to write a domestic (yet still obsessive) Dex while not being too ooc, inspired by the song Bloom by the Paper Kites. Also, should I start a Dex taglist? Anyways, Enjoy!
You had not meant to start talking about employment while you were wiping blood off Benjamin Poindexter on your bed.
It just slipped out of you, somewhere between the towel going pink under your fingers and the smell of peroxide rising through the warm, lived-in air of your studio apartment.
You and Dex shared that space in New York, which sounded more pathetic than it felt. It wasn’t luxurious. It wasn’t really the kind of place people imagined when they said they wanted to build a life with their love of their life. There was no separate bedroom, no separate dining room, no hallway to put your coats in. The kitchen was barely its own room, more of a stubborn little strip of counter and cabinets pretending to be separate from the rest of the apartment, and the bed sat close enough to a cabinet that you had once knocked a stack of your research books onto the mattress by accident and Dex had caught two before they hit your knees.
But it was yours, and that made a difference.
Dex didn’t really need much. That was one of the first things you had learned about him, and one of the saddest.
He owned what he could carry, what he could hide, what he could use: clothes, weapons, toothbrush, a plain black jacket that had seen through more death than most people. He hadn’t moved into your life so much as folded himself carefully into the empty spaces of it, as if he was still waiting to be told he had taken up too much room.
You had filled the rest. Your desk sat in the corner under the window, always drowning in highlighters, case studies, printed articles, and half-dead pens. Your forensic psychology textbooks were stacked wherever they would fit. There was a mug full of rulers and pencils beside your laptop, a corkboard with notes and deadlines and a photobooth strip of the two of you in Coney Island that Dex pretended not to care about but always noticed when it tilted crooked.
Of course he cared. It was your first date.
And though he didn’t tell you, he had made a copy of it and put it under his suit when he went out, right over his heart. It was a reminder that you wanted him home.
But this space was enough. It was more than enough, somehow.
There was still room to dance in the kitchen if you were careful. Last Saturday, barefoot and half-asleep, with the radio turned on, you had twirled yourself into his arms to Tina’s Proud Mary. Dex had just stood there like he had no idea what to do until you took his hands and put them on your waist. There was still room for him to lift you onto the counter when you kissed him too sweetly for too long. There was still room for dinner eaten on a small table with two folding chairs, there was still room for your laundry tangled together in one basket, for his shoes beside yours by the door.
There was still room, somehow, for Dex to crowd you back against the wall, hands firm on your hips, mouth hot against your throat while you laughed under your breath and told him the neighbors were going get tired of hearing how well he fucked you.
Room for him to murmur filthy and wrecked things, that he should “throw your pills away,” that he was going to “knock you up, huh? Want me to put a baby in you?”
You’d pull back with a wicked smile, nails hooked in his shirt, and you’d whisper, “That is not the threat you think it is, baby.”
You chalked it up to your boyfriend being a kinky little shit. You should have paid more attention to the way his eyes went black, the way his grip tightened on your skin. When he kissed you again, it was with the devoted certainty of a man who had just realized his most unhinged fantasy was not his alone.
Still, even in this small fantasy, there was still room to pretend, on the good nights, that you were normal.
Tonight was not one of the good nights.
Dex had come home after a day across the Supreme Court building with blood dried dark along his cheekbone, though you suspected none of it was his.
Even if it was, you knew he wasn’t hurt at all, because Dex didn’t stagger or slump. He didn’t come through the door gasping or cursing or asking for help. He entered the apartment with rigid control in his body, like every step had been measured in advance. He came in like arriving home had been a decision, not an escape. Like whatever had happened in this room, with you, was sacred compared to the rest of the world.
He came home like he had not been part of the makeshift siege at court.
Like he had not shot the Mayor’s aide.
Like the whole city had not been tearing itself apart on the news for hours while you sat on the bed with your phone in your hand, refreshing headlines you didn’t want to read and listening for footsteps in the hallway.
When he looked at you, his pupils tracked your face. Before he let you touch him, before he let you ask questions, before he decided whether his own body was allowed to matter, his eyes went over you like a security sweep to make sure you were safe.
Then they landed on your arm and saw a bruise.
It was nothing, really. You had caught yourself badly against the fire escape earlier when you’d climbed out for air because the apartment had felt too small with sirens in the distance and Dex not answering his phone. It was a mean little scar, blue and purple, but shallow enough not to hurt you permanently. It was annoying, more than anything. You had almost forgotten about it.
But Dex looked at it like it was evidence.
So now you were sitting beside him on the bed with a towel, a bottle of peroxide, cotton pads, and the sad frozen bag of peas you had pulled from the freezer because neither of you owned a real ice pack. You were trying to clean blood from his face. He was trying to ice your bruise.
It would have been funny if it did not make you want to cry.
“Give me your arm,” he said.
“There’s literally blood on you,” you sighed.
“Not mine,” he said dismissively, confirming your suspicions, “give me your arm.”
“Benjamin.”
His hazel eyes flicked up, mostly because you only called him that when you were annoyed at him.
You stared at each other for one stubborn second, but he didn’t seem like he was going to let up.
Then you sighed and gave him your arm.
He took it carefully, his fingers gentle around your wrist despite the split skin across his knuckles. He pressed the frozen peas to the bruise like he was handling precious and breakable gemstones, his mouth set in a hard line, his focus absolute.
That was the thing about loving Dex: it wasn’t sensible. It had never been sensible.
You’d always had a practical head on your shoulders. You were getting your third degree in forensic psychology because you liked patterns, motive, broken systems, and the strange little hinges inside people that made them choose one door instead of another. You were both a student and a research assistant at the university, which sounded better on paper than it felt in your bank account. You were technically employed, technically building experience, technically lucky to have the position at all. In reality, you were paid in a way that felt insulting once, tuition costs, books, and subway fare had finished carving you hollow.
Still, you were smart. Academically, you understood obsession. You had annotated articles on attachment trauma, violent conditioning, hypervigilance, and maladaptive devotion. You had spent whole nights highlighting phrases that described people like Dex in clinical and sterile language.
You knew the warning signs and studied the red flags. You knew the vocabulary you were supposed to use. You knew what you were supposed to do when someone like Bullseye looked at you like you were the last fixed point in the universe: run.
But when Dex saved your life during an Anti-Vigilante Task Force raid on the lab you were visiting, all that practical knowledge had become extremely inconvenient.
It had been chaos: glass breaking, alarm screaming. Your supervisor shouted for everyone to get down. The AVTF had come in hard, looking for records, samples, names, anything connected to vigilante research and enhanced activity. You had hidden beneath a workstation with one hand clamped over your mouth and your heartbeat so loud you thought it might give you away.
Then Dex had arrived.
He had been hunting that day. You later found out because he told you.
He had moved through your lab with a purpose, turning the room itself into a weapon. A glass beaker found its way into a man’s throat. He had thrown a ruler with such perfect force, it split skin and cartilage. A metal clipboard managed to dislocate a man’s jaw, even through the helmet. Pens, scalpels, broken glass, a heavy ceramic mug from your professor’s desk were all used. Ordinary things became fatal in his hands, as if the universe had been waiting for him to point at something and decide what it was for.
He killed twelve men with office supplies and lab equipment, and then he crouched in front of you, breathing hard, blood on his cheek, and asked you if you were okay.
You should have been horrified. You were horrified.
Part of you had been shaking with terror. Another part, the part you did like to examine too closely, had understood with awful clarity that some monsters were safer when they were loved than when they were not.
You should have run from him.
Instead, you had fallen in love.
Worse, he had fallen, too.
The love that grew between the two of you wasn't sweet, nor safe. Not in the way people with normal jobs and normal apartments and normal dinner plans fell in love. Dex loved wholly. He loved like if he took his eyes off you, the world would immediately try to take you from him. He loved like affection and violence had gotten tangled in him so early that he no longer knew how to separate protection from possession.
And you, for whatever reason, loved him right back.
You loved him in the studio apartment with the too-small kitchen and the desk in the corner. You loved him when he stood behind you while you brushed your teeth, chin resting against your shoulder, silent and half-asleep and watchful even then. You loved him when he checked the locks twice before bed. You loved him when he pretended not to care about your old Greek and Roman mythology books and then remembered every story you had ever told him. You loved him when he came home with blood under his nails, but looked at your scraped arm like the city owed him an explanation.
“Hold still,” he said, pressing the frozen peas more carefully against your skin.
You stared at him, at the slight bruise under his jaw and the split knuckles he was ignoring because your shallow scrape had somehow hurt him more.
“I should get a job,” you said, almost offhandedly.
His hand stopped.
You hadn’t meant for it to come out like that: flat and sudden. Not while he was sitting on your shared bed after a long day. But there it was anyway sitting between you and the ruined silence of the apartment.
Dex looked up slowly. “You have a job.”
“I have half a job.” You laughed without much humor. “I have a professor who thinks payment is optional because experience is apparently a currency. Because PhD students clearly don’t need to eat, right?”
He huffed. A few months ago, he did offer to dispose of your professor and you just waved him off, saying the person who would take his job would be worse. He offered to dispose of him, too, but stopped offering half-measured solutions when you kissed his forehead and said the department would probably just shut down because they can’t afford two murders. “But you’re in school,” he said.
“So?” You shrugged, “Lots of people are in school and have extra jobs.”
“You babysit Mrs. Smithers’ cat,” he frowned.
You snorted before you could stop yourself. “She pays us in lasagnas.”
“She makes good lasagna,” he insisted.
“That is not an income stream, Dex.”
“No,” he shook his head, knowing how hard you actually worked for your spot in the institution. “But you’re always busy anyway. I can take care of you”
“You’re wanted, baby,” you reminded him.
That hurt.
Dex’s eyes barely changed, but you knew him too well now. You saw the tiny shift in his eyes. His fingers adjusted around your wrist. He looked down at your arm again, focusing too intently on the ice pack, as if his obsession to keep you safe could be used to cover a wound in the conversation.
“I can provide,” he said.
You sighed immediately, because of course he would say it like that. Like a vow, like a reflex, like a wound of his own.
“I know.”
“I pay rent,” he reminded you, though he said it like it was a responsibility. He didn’t use it against you; it was just a fact.
“I know.”
“I pay groceries,” he said.
“Yes, Dex,” you huffed, “I know.”
His teeth clenched, more disappointed in himself than at you. “Then what?”
You looked around the apartment because it was easier than looking at him.
Yes, Dex paid rent. Dex bought groceries. Dex came home with cash sometimes, folded tight and tucked away in envelopes. He made sure there was good coffee in the cabinet because you hated your mornings without it. He bought the brand of cereal you liked and pretended it was because it had been on sale. He fixed the loose leg on your desk chair. He remembered bills before you did.
He provided, but it was not stable.
Dex didn’t clock into shifts. Dex didn’t have a payroll department, a predictable deposit, a pension, or a neat little tax form with an employer’s name printed at the top. His work came in fragments and dangerous calls from powerful people who knew what he could do.
Odd jobs, if you wanted to be generous. Assassination, if you wanted to be honest.
He did it because he was good at it.
But mostly, lately, he did it because of you.
Because rent was due. Because the fridge needed filling. Because your textbooks cost you too much. Because he liked watching you eat takeout on the bed with your legs folded beneath you, he liked seeing you safe and warm and full in his room. Because every dollar he brought home became proof that he could keep you satisfied, that he could build a life, that he could be more than the worst thing he knew how to do.
And that terrified you almost as much as it touched you, because there was no stability in that kind of work.
Sometimes, Dex wished he had known you when he was still with the FBI.
Before prison. Before Fisk. Before his face was plastered on the news. Before every job application in the world became a joke. He imagined it sometimes in a way that felt masochistic.
He imagined coming home to you in a suit and taking you to dinner with a paycheck that had his name on it. He imagined you flowers, buying you pretty things and whatever else you asked for.
He could have been a man for you. As outdated as he knew that sounded, he still wished he could be that man again.
“It’s not about whether you do,” you said carefully. “It’s just that… it’s not steady.”
His teeth tightened further.
“I’m not insulting you,” you reassured.
“You think I can’t take care of you.”
“No.” You leaned closer, your voice softening the impact. “I think you take care of me so much that you forget I should be allowed to take care of you, too.”
He didn’t answer.
Outside, a siren wailed below, then faded into traffic and distance. The studio felt very small around you, too warm and intimate.
Dex looked down at your arm again and pressed the melting bag of peas more gently against your skin.
“I’ll find something steady,” he said.
Your heart clenched. “Dex.”
“I will,” he promised.
“Where?”
His eyes lifted to yours. You tried to smile, but it came out tired and fond and sad all the same. “You shot Buck Cashman in front of half the city. I’m not saying that like I’m mad. I’m saying maybe LinkedIn is not going to work out this month.”
“I’ll find something,” he said.
It came out too quickly, too flatly, like he was sealing a wound before you could see how deep it went.
You looked at him where he sat on the edge of the bed, one knee pressed against yours, the frozen bag of peas melting slowly in his hand. You saw the bruise smudged high beneath his cheekbone, the split in his lower lip that he kept worrying with his tongue like he had forgotten it was there. He looked awful. Beautiful, too. The world had tried, again and again, to make him unlovable, and your stupid heart had taken one look at him and said, mine.
“What, a desk job?” you asked.
Dex gave you a look.
He wasn’t offended exactly. More like you had asked him to picture himself, in his Bullseye suit that you loved so much, sitting under fluorescent lights, wearing a lanyard, filling out forms, and smiling politely at coworkers named Brad from HR.
The idea was so absurd that, despite everything, your mouth twitched upward.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said, leaning in a little. “Did I insult your very promising administrative career?”
He frowned unwillingly, and for a second you hated yourself for accidentally being a little too mean.
Still, you couldn’t help yourself. You leaned closer and kissed the scar near his cheekbone so gently it was barely anything at all. Dex closed his eyes for half a second. When you pulled back, he still kept his eyes closed for one breath longer.
“Baby,” you whispered, voice gentler now, nearly breaking with fondness, “you cannot put ‘excellent with projectiles’ on a résumé.”
His eyes opened and found you immediately. “I could.”
You shook your head, “You really, really shouldn’t.”
“I have skills.” He pouted. It was cute.
“You have criminal charges.”
“Transferable skills,” he said, with such dry seriousness that you chuckled before you could stop yourself.
His posture changed, like he always did when you laughed. Not dramatically, though. He didn’t transform all at once. He softened by millimeters, as if your happiness had reached into some fortified part of him and loosened one bolt at a time. The hard line of his shoulders eased. His teeth unclenched. His thumb, which had been pressing the peas too carefully to your bruise, shifted a little.
For a moment, he looked less like a weapon that was left loaded in your apartment and more like a man who had come home to you because there was nowhere else in the world he could bear to be, because he was yours. Because he wanted so badly to be good for you that it almost broke your heart.
He adjusted the ice pack again. “You shouldn’t have to worry about money.”
“We live in New York, Dex.” You tried to sound light but it just came out tired. “Worrying about money is basically a civic duty.”
“You shouldn’t have to,” he said again.
He didn’t say it like a boyfriend trying to be useful. He said it like a soldier stating a mission objective. Like he had identified the enemy— rent, groceries, tuition, your professor underpaying you, the whole grinding machine of the city— and had decided that he would kill it if he could. “Not you,” he added, quieter.
And Dex didn’t feel this way for you because he had learned to be a sympathetic person. He wasn’t.
He didn’t suddenly feel tender toward the whole world because he learned how to love. He didn’t look at strangers and imagine their mothers. He didn’t hesitate before hurting people who had put themselves on the wrong side of his line. He could kill a room full of people and sleep like a baby afterward. He didn’t ask himself if the Anti-Vigilante Task Force agents had families who were waiting for them. Their blood did not weigh on his conscience in any meaningful way.
He hasn’t learned to be secretly good and noble under all the damage in some easy, redeemable way. He was only tender with you, and even that was not because you were an exception to his nature.
It was because somewhere along the way, Dex had thought of you and him as the same person.
You weren’t some separate innocent woman he loved from afar. You were not a moral compass he worshipped because you made him better. You were his life. His home.
Your body was his body outside his body. Your exhaustion was his exhaustion. Your money was his money, and his money was yours, not because he felt entitled to it, but because the two of you had stopped existing as separate organisms somewhere around the first month he slept in your bed and woke up with your hand on his chest. You were one system now. One thing. One fused unit pretending to be two people for legal convenience.
So watching you work long hours in a lecture hall that barely paid felt like self-harm. That was the clearest way his mind could understand it. Like the two of you shared one nervous system, and every hour you worked yourself past exhaustion was pain traveling down the same wire until it reached him, too.
“Come on, Dex,” you frowned. “You think I want you running yourself into the ground because you decided you have to pay every bill?”
His eyes lifted to yours, and all you saw was terrible sincerity. It was desperate enough to frighten you because it didn’t know how to ask for love without offering blood in return.
“I should take care of you,” he said.
Not I want to. Not I’d like to. Not even let me.
I should.
You swallowed. “Dex…”
“I should.” His voice roughened, and it was absolute, like he had said this to himself before. Like maybe he had been saying it for months, in his head, every time he bought groceries, every time he counted cash, every time he watched you fall asleep over your notes with your cheek pressed to an open textbook. “You shouldn’t have to think about it. Rent, food, school, any of it. You should just—” He stopped, eyes darting away. “You should just sit there and be pretty.”
That ruined you a little.
There were things you could have said: Things about partnership, equality, how love was not supposed to turn into duty, how his need to provide came from some wounded place in him that still believed usefulness was the same as worth. You knew those things. You believed them, mostly.
But then he looked at you like taking care of you wasn’t a burden but a privilege. Like the idea of failing at it scared him more than the city hunting him. Like every terrible thing he had ever been made into could be balanced, somehow, if he could use it to keep you warm, fed, safe, untouched by the worst parts of the world.
He sat there, bruised and exhausted, dried blood at his temple, your scraped arm cradled in one hand as if it mattered more than every wound on his own body.
So you kissed him.
You didn’t mean to make it deep. You meant it to be reassurance, just a little press of your mouth to his, a way of telling him you were not leaving, not angry, not disappointed in how his love manifested even when it frightened you.
But Dex never received you halfway.
He leaned in, immediate and helpless, his free hamd coming to your waist with that familiar, possessive spread of his fingers. It was not rough, because he was never rough with you unless you asked him to be. But it was intense, as if the second your lips touched his, his body decided the only thing that made sense was pulling you closer.
You kissed him until the frozen peas slipped slightly against your arm and neither of you cared. Until his muscles relaxed under yours. Until he made a small sound in the back of his throat that made you hum, pleased with yourself.
When you pulled away, his eyes stayed on your lips, looking at your mouth like it had betrayed him by leaving.
You brushed your thumb over his chin. “You cannot just decide to provide by sheer force of will.”
Dex blinked, still dazed enough from the kiss that it took him half a second to find the conversation again.
Then his eyes sharpened in that almost boyish, almost hopeful way. “What if I got work?”
You exhaled through your nose. “Again. Where?”
His thumb moved once against your waist in small strokes that were barely there.
“I heard that the CIA director is looking for someone to take over a contract,” he said.
You blinked.
It sounded clean on the surface and filthy underneath.
He said them carefully, like he was testing whether they could pass as normal if he used the right tone.
“You mean black ops,” you said blankly.
“I mean work.”
“Benjamin,” you tilted your head.
“It’s steady enough.” His eyes did not leave yours.
“That is not the same as safe.”
His eyes looked like guilt passing quickly through the devotion. “I can handle that.”
“I know you can.” You touched his cheek again, achingly gentle. “That’s what scares me.”
He looked at your face, taking inventory of every emotion there. His hand tightened at your waist.
“I’d come home,” he said.
Your heart ached. “You can’t promise that.”
“I’d make it true.”
“That’s not how promises work.”
“It is for me.”
And there he was. Your Dex. Your impossible, obsessive man, sitting in your too-small studio with blood on his face, telling you with complete sincerity that he could bend fate into obedience if the reward was coming home to you.
You wanted to argue, but he cut you off before you could even finish forming thoughts.
“If I got a job,” he said carefully, “I could buy you a ring.”
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
For a second, you forgot how to breathe.
He had said it so quietly, so carefully, like the word itself was fragile. Like if he had manifested it into the room too hard, it might shatter before you could touch it.
A ring.
Dex watched you like he was waiting to see if he had ruined everything.
He didn’t look casual. He was never casual about you. He didn’t toss out precious things like the future just to see if they landed. He offered them like they had been a piece of his flesh cut out of him.
And you realized, in that second, that this had not been a stray thought.
Dex hadn’t just imagined it. Dex had been living with it.
You could see it now, in the way he held himself in the way his fingers had tightened just slightly at your waist, in the way his eyes kept flicking down to your mouth like he wanted to kiss the answer out of you and was forcing himself not to.
He had carried this around. Maybe for weeks. Maybe for months.
Maybe he had been thinking about marrying you while listening to your rant about your professor. He had been thinking about it while fixing the wobbly leg on your desk chair. He had been thinking about it while watching you laugh at Mrs. Smithers’ cat through the cracked door.
Maybe he had been thinking about it while buying groceries. Maybe he even stood in the pasta aisle with blood still under his sleeves, picking the brand you liked better because you once said the cheaper one tasted “dusty.”
“Mm,” you managed.
It was barely a sound. Your throat had gone tight. You were trying very hard not to break apart, trying not to let the whole sweetness of it take you down completely, but your hand was already lifting to his face. Your thumb brushed the corner of his mouth, careful of the split in his lip.
“You sure you wanna marry me?” you asked.
Dex looked genuinely offended. “Yes.”
It came so fast you almost laughed. You did, a little, but it cracked around the edges. “Really?”
His brow furrowed, as if the question itself made no sense. “Yes.”
“You’ve thought about it?”
Dex stared at you, and the answer was so obvious then.
He had probably thought about it too much. Dex didn’t daydream. He planned. He mapped. He calculated. Even his fantasies came with exit routes and contingency plans.
“Okay,” you whispered. “What would that life even look like?”
You saw this glint in his eyes, the way they widened by a fraction. You had asked the one question he had been dying to answer.
His hand stayed at your waist. His thumb moved once, almost unconsciously, a small stroking motion through the fabric of your shirt.
“I’d get us a house,” he said.
Your heart gave a helpless little kick.
His gaze drifted past you, not away in dismissal, but as if the apartment disappeared from his eyes.
“Not in the city,” he said. “Close enough if you still wanted it, for work or whatever you wanted, not right in it. Not sirens under the window all night, not this building where you can hear every footstep in the hall and know which ones don’t belong.”
His thumb moved once against your waist, like even with his head in the clouds he needed one hand on you to make sure the dream had a center.
“We’d look at the suburbs,” he continued. “I’d want roads I could learn. I want neighbors so you can bake them pie, but I don’t want them too close. We need a neighborhood with space between houses. We need streetlights that work. A sidewalk, maybe, where you could walk in the morning if you wanted and I wouldn’t spend the whole time looking over your shoulder.”
You stayed quiet.
You didn’t want to interrupt him. There was something too precious about the way he was speaking, like he had cracked open a safe inside himself and all these impossibly domestic things were spilling out.
“It would have a yard,” he said, smaller now. “Not huge. We don’t need huge, but we need enough. We would need a fence. A good one. Tall, but not ugly. I’d make sure it looked nice. You’d care about that.”
Your throat tightened.
“I’d make sure I have good sightlines in there,” he continued, “no blind spots.”
There he is.
“And I’d plant flowers,” he added.
You blinked. Dex glanced at you, then looked down again as if the admission embarrassed him more than the blood on his face.
“You like flowers. The wild-looking ones. The ones outside delis in buckets, or growing through fences. You slow down when you see them.” His mouth twitched faintly, affectionate. “You pretend you don’t, but you do.”
He… noticed?
“I’d plant those,” he said. “I don’t know anything about gardening, but I could learn.”
He kept going before you could answer
“There’d be a porch, or a back deck. I’d put a chair there for you.” A little warmth moved through his eyes, as if imagining it. “You’d probably bring a blanket out even if it wasn’t cold.”
You smiled, and it seemed to give him more courage.
“And you’d have an office,” he said. “A real one, not a desk shoved into a corner with your papers stacked on the floor.”
Your eyes stung.
“Built-in shelves if we could, for your research books,” he continued. “Your fiction books, all of them. You wouldn’t have to pile them on the windowsill or keep the heavy ones under the desk. Your desk would face a window, but no one should be able to see into it from the street.”
You let out the smallest laugh, but he kept drifting deeper now.
“There’d be a couch in there,” he said. “So I could sit with you while you worked. I’d be quiet.”
The confession was so completely him that something inside you melted. He said it without shame, without trying to make it sound less obsessive than it was. Of course he would watch you. Of course he had already imagined sitting in a room built for your mind, staring at you while you read and wrote and thought, content just to be near the machinery of you.
“I like when you’re focused,” he murmured. “You make that face.”
You did not ask what face. You wanted him to keep talking.
“The kitchen would be big,” he said next, and there was certainty in that, like he had stood in it a thousand times. “Big enough for that island you like.”
Your mouth parted.
“We’d have one with those ugly pendant lights,” he added, with the resigned tone of a man making a grave sacrifice.
You smiled fully now. “They’re not ugly,” was all you could manage under your breath.
He heard it and very quickly added, “They are. But you like them, so we’d have it.”
That nearly did you in.
“There’d be storage,” he said. “Pans would be in the cabinets, not in the oven. I’d build you a spice drawer and I’ll organise them.”
You pressed your lips together, smiling harder.
“I’d make coffee before you woke up,” he continued. “Yours first. I’d make breakfast and I’d make more than eggs. Pancakes, maybe. You like pancakes when you’re sad.”
Your smile trembled.
“I’d make dinners, too,” he said. “You could sit at the counter and read to me while I cooked.” He looked almost shy at that. “Or talk. I don’t care. I just like your voice.”
The room felt too small for him then. Too small for the size of what he wanted.
“And a dining table,” he said, his thumb stilled against you. “With more than two chairs.”
He swallowed once and kept going.
“The bathroom would have that shower,” he said. “Like the hotel you wouldn’t stop talking about.”
You almost laughed. “A rain shower?” You asked
“Yes,” he said seriously. “With a glass door, a bench, and heated floors, because you hate cold tile.”
His eyes flicked to your face.
“I’d spoil you,” he said, like a vow. His eyesight lowered to your hand, then back to your face.
You couldn’t speak, but he went on anyway, because now that he had started, the dream seemed to pull him forward by the heart.
“There’d be security,” he said. Of course there would be. But from Dex, even that sounded like love.
“I’ll get good locks with reinforced doors. I’d install cameras.” he said immediately, almost gently. “I’ll get motion lights and window sensors.”
He breathed out slowly.
“You wouldn’t have to check anything,” he said. “I’d do it.”
What he was saying was wouldn’t have to listen at night, or wonder, or brace, or be scared just because the world was dangerous. Dex would take the ritual of fear and make it his. He would check the doors, the windows, the shadows, so you could go upstairs and sleep.
“I’d check the locks before bed,” he said. “You could just go up and get in bed. Read or sleep with the light on if you want. I’d turn it off.”
He said it with such certainty that tears gathered before you could stop them.
He didn’t notice yet. He had gone too far into the house.
“There’d be a gun cabinet,” he continued, practical now. “Locked, of course, and separate from ammunition. I’ll get biometric locks and a backup key hidden somewhere only we knew.”
His focus sharpened slightly as he pictured it.
“And a weapons cabinet too, with knives, anything tactical, anything I wouldn’t want left out. It would be hidden or built into the wall somewhere no one would look. Not near the kitchen. Not near the bedrooms.” He said it like he had already rejected three possible locations. “Everything would be secured,” he continued. “No exceptions. Nothing lying around.”
Then, still looking into that future house, still seeing the walls and the locks and the rooms and all the dangerous love he wanted to put inside them, he added, almost absently, “at least until the kids are old enough.”
Oh.
“The kids?” you asked.
Dex blinked. For a second, he looked almost confused that you had stopped him there, like the kids had been so naturally integrated into the architecture of his fantasy that he had forgotten you were only just now seeing the floor plan. In his head, apparently, they already existed.
“Yes,” he said, as if it were obvious. “Kids.”
He said it as if this were already settled. As if the universe had filed the paperwork. As if somewhere, in some future suburb with a fenced yard, your children were already waiting for him to come home.
“You just assumed?” you asked, your voice dazed.
Dex’s brows pulled together like he was only now realizing assumption was supposed to be a problem.
Then his eyes searched yours, suddenly cautious.
“I—” He paused, his fingers tightening slightly at your waist. “I assumed you’d want them,” he finished. “I assumed I’d give you anything you wanted. And I assumed…” His eyes dropped, then lifted again. “I assumed if there was any way the world let me have you like that, I’d take it.”
There it was.
Dex didn’t want a family because he had always dreamed of domestic happiness. He wanted it like conquest. He wanted children because they would be yours, because they would be his, because they would be the physical evidence of a future he had no right to expect. Benjamin Poindexter didn’t want in half measures. He consumed possibility whole. If he loved you, he loved the future of you and the shape of you extended forward. The house that held you. The children that might come from you.
That was deranged. That wasn’t normal. But to you, that was also, for reasons you could not explain without sounding like you needed professional intervention, romantic.
Dex watched your mouth part. “I’d love them,” he said. “I would. I know I would. Because they’d be yours.”
There it was, not the socially acceptable version. Not I love children or I always wanted a family. Dex didn’t know how to make love sound normal when it came from him.
He would love them because they would carry your eyes, maybe, or your mouth, or your stubbornness. Because he would look at them and see you continued into another body.
“They’d be mine too,” he added, like that part was harder for him to trust. “And maybe that part could be good because it came through you.”
Dex looked down at his hands that had done terrible things and could still hold you like it was made of light.
So you only sat there letting him talk, letting him show you the things he had apparently been thinking around for months.
“Have you thought about names?” you asked.
Dex nodded slightly.
Your lips parted.
“You have,” you whispered.
He looked almost offended again, but not at you this time. At the idea that he could have built this whole imaginary house, this whole impossible future, and not named the children already running through it. “Of course I have.”
“Tell me,” you said.
Dex watched you carefully. You could tell that there was still that small, frightened part of him, the part waiting for the insult, the laugh, the moment where your wonder hardened into common sense. But you just looked… patient.
“For a boy,” he said, “Jason.”
Jason.
Dex’s voice lowered. “Because you loved Jason and the Argonauts when you were little. The way everyone went after something impossible.”
You remembered telling him that, barely. It had been one of those late-night conversations with your cheek on his chest. His fingers moved through your hair as you rambled about mythology books you used to check out of the library, about heroes who were never as perfect as people wanted them to be.
Dex had listened.
“And for a girl?” you asked, already knowing he had one.
“Callie,” he said then immediately added, “Short for Calliope. Callie at school. Calliope if she liked it. Whatever you liked.”
Your eyes stung. “Callie,” you whispered.
Dex nodded. “You said she was the muse of epic poetry. You liked that she belonged to stories.”
You pressed your fingers to your mouth. He remembered that too.
“Jason and Callie,” you said with a sigh.
You realized then, that Dex had not chosen names because he liked them. He had chosen names because he thought you would.
Because even in his most private fantasies, the children were not abstract. They were not trophies. They were not little versions of him he could shape into whatever he wanted. They were pieces of you carried forward into the world, proof that some part of you could exist outside your own body and still belong to him, too.
“You like them,” he realised.
“I love them.”
His hand tightened around yours. Then, as if the names had opened a door he could no longer close, he kept going.
“Jason would have your eyes,” he said, voice distant again, head fully in the clouds now. “He’d be quiet, I think, the kind of kid who watches first. He’d notice everything.”
Your throat tightened.
“And Callie,” he said, and a faint helplessness moved through his face. “She’d be trouble.”
You laughed a little.
“She’d climb things,” he continued. “She’d argue. She’d look right at me while doing exactly what I told her not to do.”
You could see it.
Worse, you could see how much he loved it.
This imaginary little girl, stubborn and wild, already had him wrapped around her tiny, nonexistent finger.
“She’d have your mouth,” he said, almost to himself. “Your attitude.”
“My attitude?”
His eyes flicked to yours, and there was something wickedly fond in them. “Your attitude.”
He looked down at your joined hands again, thumb moving over your knuckles, and his voice changed.
“They’d need to be ready.”
For what?
But you knew what for. This part that should’ve made you want to retreat, but it only made you want to lean in more, because this was Dex’s love too. The same root, grown through darker soil.
“Ready?” you asked.
“For the world,” he clarified.
Dex’s eyes were calm now, focused and devoted. There was nothing theatrical in him, nothing performative. He was not fantasizing about violence for the sake of it. He was imagining two children made from you and him, and his first instinct was to make sure nothing could ever make them helpless.
He wasn’t in the kitchen anymore. He was in the woods with Jason and Callie when they were older and taller.
“I know what I am,” he said with finality. “I know what I’m good for.”
Your heart pinched. “Dex…”
“No,” he said, because he knew you. Because he could hear the protest forming before you even opened your mouth. “Don’t do that.”
You tilted your head.
“I know what I’m good for,” he repeated, gentler this time, but no less certain. “And if I’m good for anything, I will make sure they have every tool in their disposal to survive.”
There was no self-pity in it. He didn’t sound like a man condemning himself. He sounded like a man who had finally found a use for the worst parts of him and decided that they would serve you.
“They won’t be helpless,” he said. “Not our kids.”
Our kids.
“Jason and Callie won’t be fragile and easy to hurt. I won’t do that to them.”
His jaw tightened, and pride flickered through his face.
“They’ll be smart. They’ll be aware. They’ll know when a room feels wrong. They’ll know what a threat looks like before it reaches them.”
You listened, heart thudding.
“And they’ll be skilled,” he said.
It mattered to him. You could hear it.
Skilled.
Not broken. Not molded. Not made into little copies of him. He wanted them skilled, accurate, and alive.
“I’d start small,” he continued. “I’ll teach them hand-to-hand, teach them how to use their reflexes. I’ll teach them how to move without panicking, how to get up when they fall, how to breathe when they’re scared. Jason would overthink it at first. He’ll want every movement perfect before he tries. Callie would rush in and get mad when I made her slow down.” His mouth curved up faintly. “She’ll hate slowing down.”
You almost smiled through the ache in your chest.
“But she’ll learn,” he said. “They both will.”
His eyes darkened around the imagination.
“When they’re older, I'll teach them how to aim.”
Aim was not violence to him, not really. It was discipline. It was proof that the body could obey the mind.
“They better have their old man’s aim,” he murmured.
It should have sounded awful.
And it did, a little.
But it also sounded like him imagining a son and daughter with pieces of himself; His focus, his loyalty, his ability to lock onto a target and not shake.
“They’ll know how to throw,” he said. “How to hit what they mean to hit. I’ll get them knives, when they’re old enough. Take them to the range to shoot guns when they're older. No one fucking picks on my kids and lives to see another day.” He looked at you then, and the obsession in his face had turned holy. “I’ll make sure they understand that.”
You swallowed.
“If they find themselves in a bad situation, I’ll make sure they’re better than lucky. Lucky runs out. Lucky gets them killed. I want them trained. I want them calm. I want them to be able to look at danger and know they’re more dangerous.”
His hand tightened around yours.
“I want Jason to know how to get Callie out if something happens. I want Callie to know how to get Jason out. I want both of them to know how to get back to their mother.”
Your breath caught.
Their mother.
Dex said it as if it were the center of the whole plan.
“I’ll make sure they come home in one piece,” he said, voice rough now. “Ready for dinner. That’s the point.”
Your throat tightened.
“I’ll make damn sure they can leave this house and come back to it. I’ll make sure you’re not sitting at that kitchen table wondering if they’re safe.” His eyes dropped to your mouth, then back up. “I don’t want you afraid.”
Fuck.
The whole deranged, violent, tender fantasy had always curved back to that. Dex teaching your future children to fight, to aim, to survive, not because he wanted war in the home, but because he wanted peace for you. Because his idea of fatherhood was Jason and Callie walking through the front door with backpacks tossed on the floor, cheeks flushed, while you stood at the stove or sat at the island with your coffee and didn’t have to imagine every terrible thing that might have happened to them.
“I’d kill for them, you know this,” he said, rubbing a slow circle on your skin, “I’d burn the whole world down for them.” Dex did not look away. “But if I know they can take care of themselves, then my eyes can stay where they belong.”
His hand cupped your face fully now.
“On you.”
He said it like it was obvious. Like the whole future had a single center of gravity and he had been circling it the entire time, pretending he was talking about houses and kitchens and gun cabinets and kids, when really he had only ever been talking about you.
“Because all of this,” Dex whispered, “would happen because of you.”
His thumb moved beneath your eye, catching the tear before it could fall properly. He looked at you like the city and the sirens and the blood on his knuckles were temporary, like the whole world outside the window was an environment he could outlast if it meant getting you somewhere safe.
“You understand that, right?” he asked, but his voice made it sound less like a question and more like a confession he needed you to survive hearing.
Dex leaned closer, his hand cupping your cheek now, holding you with that possession that never felt casual.
“I’d make sure the kids knew that,” he said. “I’d make sure they knew anything good in me came from you.”
Your lips parted, but nothing came out.
“The warmth in the house, the fairytales they would hear before bed, the flowers they pick from the garden.” His thumb brushed slowly along your cheekbone. “They’d know that was you. That all of it was you.”
Your eyes burned.
“They’d love you,” Dex whispered. “because you’re perfect.”
“Dex…”
“And they’d love me because I’d earn it.” he said.
Oh, Benjamin.
Your heart broke a little at that.
He said it simply, like love was not something he had ever expected to be given for free if it was him.
His hand slid a little lower, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, parting your lips.
“You wouldn’t have to learn how to shoot,” he reassured. “Because you’d have me.”
His voice dropped lower, intimate and possessive all the same.
“I’d take care of you,” he continued, “because that’s the only thing I was made wrong enough to do right.”
It should have sounded suffocating. Maybe from anyone else, it would have. But from Dex, it felt less like a cage and more like a shelter.
A small, broken laugh caught in your throat.
His mouth curved faintly, almost shy and almost wicked. “You can just sit there and be pretty, huh, baby?”
Your heart gave in completely.
He said it like a promise, like he would happily make a fortress of his own body if it meant you never had to lift a finger.
Your tears started falling quicker before you could stop them.
They started coming too quickly, gathering along your lashes and breaking loose before you could blink them back. One rolled down the side of your nose. Another slipped along your cheek toward his thumb. Suddenly you were crying in front of him over a house that didn’t exist, children who hadn’t been born, a ring he hadn’t even given you yet, and the sincerity of Benjamin fuckin’ Poindexter imagining a life precious enough for you to be loved.
Dex noticed and his whole face changed. His hand, still cupping your cheek, squeezed slightly. His eyes moved over your face, searching for the wound, the mistake, the exact word that had hurt you.
“What?” he asked, his voice wound tight. “What did I say?”
You shook your head, but that only made another tear fall.
He frowned. “I upset you.”
“No.” Your voice cracked. You hated how small it sounded. “No, Dex.”
“I did.”
“You didn’t.”
There was a panick-y edge beneath the flatness of his voice. Dex could handle blood and anger Dex could handle fear if it had a direction, if it could be aimed back at something. But your tears did something awful to him. They made him look helpless in the one way he could never tolerate: like he had caused pain he couldn’t kill.
You caught his wrist before he could pull his hand away from your face.
“Baby,” you whispered, “no.”
You pressed your cheek harder into his palm, making him understand that you were not resisting his grand plan. “These are not bad tears.”
Still, you could tell he didn’t believe you yet.
“They’re not,” you promised, laughing weakly even though your throat hurt. “You just… fuck, Dex. You just said all of that like it was real.”
His mouth parted slightly.
“You really want all of that?” You asked, though it sounded more squeaky than you’d like
Dex stared at you, looking almost offended again, as if he was wounded by the possibility that you could still doubt the size of what he wanted when he had just laid it open in front of you.
“Yes,” he said.
You breathed in shakily. “The house?”
“Yes.”
“The kitchen?”
“Yes.”
“The flowers?”
His thumb moved under your eye, wiping away another tear. “Yes.”
“Jason and Callie?”
His eyebrows relaxed immediately at the mention of the names. “Yes.”
You shut your eyes.
And for one second, because he had given you permission by wanting it so badly, you let yourself imagine it.
Dex driving with one hand on the wheel, the other reaching back at a red light because Calliope had dropped her stuffed animal and immediately made it everyone’s emergency. You could see it his eyes flicking from the mirror to the road to her little outstretched hand, his mouth set in that serious line like recovering a plush rabbit from the floorboard was a tactical operation. Callie would kick her feet in the car seat, impatient and bossy, already certain her father would retrieve anything she dropped because Dex had never once been normal about anyone he cared for needing something.
Dex in a school parking lot, terrifying every other father by accident. He’d stand there in a dark jacket and smart-ish trousers, trying to look approachable and while still planning thirteen ways to neutralize a PTA committee just in case someone tried to speak wrongly about his kids. Jason walking beside him with a too-big backpack and the solemn concentration of his father. Callie skipping ahead, fearless because her father was behind her and therefore the world hadn’t yet invented anything that could touch her.
Dex teaching Jason how to throw a ball in the backyard. His son would squinting with concentration, little shoulders tense, trying too hard because he had inherited that from you. Dex crouched in front of him, adjusting his grip, telling him to breathe. Then he’d step back, watching Jason throw too hard and too wide, and smiling anyway. He’d be proud anyway, because it was a start. He’d make his way to the knives eventually.
Dex standing behind you in the kitchen, arms around your waist, chin tucked against your shoulder while your children ran through the yard beyond the window.
He’d kiss your temple and ask for another one, and you’d say, “We’ll think about it,” because you two were a unit. You were two parts of the same whole.
You opened your eyes, and he just looked terrified of how much he wanted it.
Your hand tightened around his wrist.
“When you eventually ask me,” you said, voice shaking, “know that I’ll say yes.”
For a moment, Dex didn’t move.
He didn’t even seem to breathe.
His eyes searched yours once, twice, desperately, like he had to make sure he hadn’t imagined it.
“You will?” he asked.
You smiled through the tears. “Of course.”
Joy did not sit easily on Dex, but you knew this was what it looked like.
You let out a watery little laugh, because if you did not laugh you were going to sob properly.
That seemed to bring him back to himself.
Dex leaned in and kissed your neck once, then your cheeks, then the damp place beneath your eye where a tear had slipped down.
Each kiss was careful and possessive in the best way. He wasn’t trying to stop you from crying. Instead, he wanted to claim every tear.
Dex kissed your jaw again, then tucked his face into your neck, and for a long time he just held you.
What you did not know was that the ring was already more than a fantasy to him.
What you did not know was that earlier that evening, before the Supreme Court had gone to hell, he shot Buck Cashman, before he came home, Dex had received confirmation of an advance from Mr. Charles.
He had a government contract. He had a stable job.
Dex had read the confirmation once.
Then twice.
Then, because he was Dex, he had memorized the number. The second he saw the advance, his mind had gone to you.
Rent. Groceries. Your tuition. The overdue utility bill you had tried to hide under a stack of journal articles like paper could make debt disappear. The textbooks you kept putting off buying because you said you could “probably survive with library copies,” even though he had seen the way you frowned when you said it.
And then the ring.
He’d already planned the ring.
And no, he hadn’t told you any of this yet.
Maybe he will after the first payment cleared. Maybe after the first job was done and he knew the money was steady. Maybe after he had washed the blood off well enough to convince himself he was allowed to touch something as clean as your hand.
He’d find the right jeweler, though he already had one in mind: a shop in the Upper East Side that did custom pieces. He’d get one commissioned specifically for you. Nothing too delicate, because he wanted people to notice it. Nothing too flashy, because you would wrinkle your nose and tell him he had lost his mind.
He’d get something that looked right on your hand when you reached for your coffee in the morning. A gem that would catch the kitchen light when you turned pages in your office. Something Jason might touch curiously as a child, asking if Dad gave you that, and Dex would hear you say yes from the doorway. Something Callie would one day ask to try on, and you would laugh and tell her when she could when was older. Something that said you belonged to him.
And more importantly, that he belonged to you.
For now, he said none of that.
For now, he only held you tighter on the bed, making sure you were okay.
“You’re going to be so spoiled,” he whispered against your skin.
You smiled, eyes closing, tears still drying on your face. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
“By a wanted man with frozen peas?”
That got the smallest laugh out of him.
“By your future husband,” he said.
Your heart did a helpless little flip.
Little did you know, with this contract, the future wasn’t just a fantasy to him anymore.
He just needed to ask.
—end.
-
Extra note: at this point I think everyone’s seen that clip of Wilson saying Dex should get an equally unhinged girlfriend, and I just can’t help but think of this reader getting as obsessed with his plans for the future as he is and she would not let anything stand in her way! Like she’d kill her way into it if she had to, and her being a forensic psychologist would make for interesting storytelling. (This is just a thought, I make no promises!)
summary: clark comes into contact with red kryptonite and spends the next week making your life a living hell.
word count: 3.0k
tag list: @punksnotdeadbutiam, @unabashedlyinlovewithyou,@whotfisthatsblog,@wildernessmuse, @starwarsbian, @lilacsandlavenderhaze, @florayli, @gingerfemme22, @peachyvillehorror, @cerezzzita, @kryptidfiles, @garrettgr4h4m, @rynwritesstuff, & @bellathebookdevouer | wanna be added?
content warning: 18+ only!!! clark’s temporary personality alteration by red kryptonite (obviously), angst, emotional manipulation, hurt/comfort. ROUGH SEX. she gets real mean in this one, okay?? degradation, use of a vibrator, oral sex (r!receiving) and tribbing <333 this is a happy ending, i promise. i did not mean to make the beginning so sad. like always not proofread!! we die like men.
a/n: heyyyy guys. was craving for some mean clark a few days ago and forgot i had this in my drafts. I KNOW, I KNOW, another beyoncé song fic. i’ve been listening to her a lot lately. i was also supposed to let clark use her powers on the reader in this but i kinda forgot. I’M SORRY!! hope you guys like this 💕💕. comments and reblogs are always appreciated.
LISTEN TO THE SONG FOR THE FULL EXPERIENCE
You stood on your tiptoes, almost buzzing against Clark’s desk as the warm paper cup in your hand warmed your fingers. It was her favorite order.
Two sugars and a splash of cream. Sickeningly sweet, just like her. Sure, she was running late, but waiting for her always came naturally to you.
Once you spotted her stepping through the elevator doors minutes later, your easy smile softened. Your eyebrows knitted together, inspecting her carefully.
Her posture was the same—broad shoulders beneath her typical Monday navy button-down, dark curls, glasses resting perfectly on her nose, and a copy of The Daily Planet tucked against her chest.
But something within you felt uneasy.
She just looked so…
Wrong.
Still, you didn’t let it show as she approached her desk, weaving through the sea of coworkers. When Clark finally towered over you and you offered the cup to her, you caught a glimpse of her eyes.
“There you are, baby.”
The same ocean-blue eyes you’d spent countless mornings getting lost in before she had to go save the world again.
They were still blue, but you could have sworn you noticed the faintest of red in them, like shattered ruby beneath glass.
She stared at you, almost as though she were looking right through you. Still, you persisted, nudging the cup against her hand.
“Thought I’d rescue you… I missed you last night.”
Nothing.
Not even the familiar blush that usually crept up the back of her neck.
Trying not to seem desperate already, you bit your lip as you continued, your voice dropping a little. “It was so cold in bed without you… Just me lying there in that stupid itchy lingerie.”
Usually, Clark would choke before looking around to make sure Lois and Jimmy hadn’t overheard, then lean close enough to mumble, “Don’t say things like that at work.”
Instead, she took the coffee. Her usually warm fingers, the ones that always sent shivers down your spine, were now completely cold and rigid, eerily similar to her current demeanor.
She brushed past you, nudging you aside to get to her chair.
“Seems like you survived.”
You blinked, still staring at her as she slipped behind her desk.
Normally, when you heard those words from Clark, it was in the comfort of your apartment, usually when she was feeling mischievous or flirty.
Today was neither.
She wasn’t even looking at you—your usually adoring girlfriend, who had earned a reputation around the office for never being able to stop gazing at you, even before you started dating.
Her computer wasn’t even on.
She just sat there, refusing to look at you.
Around you, conversations continued uninterrupted. Someone laughed across the room. Jimmy argued with the copier.
The world kept moving while yours paused.
Her flat voice pulled you out of the spiral.
“Are you just gonna stand there with your head up your ass, or actually do something?”
Your jaw slackened, like the wind had been knocked out of you as your heart folded inward.
A painful silence followed while you were too stunned to speak.
“Um… Right. Sorry, sweetie.”
Nothing.
Quietly, you walked back to your desk.
Towards the end of the week, the biggest question around the office was: who was this person, and what had she done to Clark Kent?
The woman who was kind enough to apologize to the copy machine after kicking it had become insufferable.
When she wasn’t brooding at her desk, she was answering people’s questions with clipped sentences or correcting them without softening the blow. She dismissed meetings halfway through after claiming they weren’t worth her time.
Even when Jimmy joked about why she didn’t bring coffee for anybody anymore—
Clark replied flatly with, “Because you’re all capable adults. Figure it out yourselves.”
Lois didn’t even playfully argue with her, too afraid that she was going to get her head bitten off. Instead, she asked you, “What crawled up Kent’s ass and died?”
You stopped talking to her, bringing her coffee, or waiting for lunch after the fourth message went unanswered.
At first, you wrote it off as her having a few bad days, because how long can someone keep their sanity while carrying the weight of the world without cracking? You wouldn’t blame her.
But this was different.
She barely acknowledged you, pretending you were nothing but another coworker, glaring at you with those strangely bright eyes.
And when she did mutter anything to you, it was either “Go away.” or “You’re in the way.”
It always left you in a state of shock. You never answered with a comeback—you simply wandered off, looking back at her over your shoulder with wide eyes, as if you’d just crossed paths with a wild animal.
Her temper had gotten so bad that it even affected her work.
You and Lois would stand in front of the break room television, watching Superwoman argue live on the news, even bickering with Mr. Terrific and baiting the poor man.
Lois stood with crossed arms and raised eyebrows, leaning over to you.
“I think there’s something wrong with your girlfriend.”
Later, when Clark filed her latest Superwoman story, Perry rejected it outright, saying it was unacceptable and that she’d gotten cocky with her writing.
On the tenth day, you began looking up if Kryptonians could get possessed by demons.
You both always joked that her apartment was haunted, with how old and creaky it was. Whereas yours was just now haunted without her scattered ties, forgotten books, and the constant warmth of her presence.
So obviously, that had to be it.
Your girlfriend was just possessed.
But that didn’t explain the red in her eyes.
Maybe it was just a different kind of demon.
To cope with a miserable week, and the terrifying thought that you might never get the old Clark back, you ordered dumplings.
So when the knock finally came, you didn’t bother checking the peephole, swinging the door open with your tip in hand.
Your polite expression for the delivery person fell away as the woman who’d been avoiding you all week stood there instead.
Her hair was wind-tossed, coat unbuttoned, with a paper bag dangling from one hand.
You pouted.
“You aren’t my dumpling delivery.”
Her eyes narrowed as she lifted the bag.
“You mean this?”
You blinked before snatching it from her hand and retreating into your apartment, having a nagging feeling she was going to follow you in.
“What happened? Scare off the delivery guy?”
Clark didn’t answer immediately, watching you place the bag on the counter.
“No. I passed him in the lobby, smelled the dumplings, and figured I’d save him the trip.”
You groaned.
“I had a twenty-dollar tip for him, Clark. You know I like to tip them extra.”
She shrugged out of her coat, dropping it onto your couch, earning a scoff from you.
“Make yourself at home, why don’t you.”
“Thank you,” she replied, mirroring your sarcastic tone.
You glared.
“…Seriously?”
Clark looked at you over the rim of her glasses.
“What?”
“What do you mean, ‘what?’”
You let out a disbelieving laugh.
“You’ve spent the last week acting like an absolute asshole. You ignored me, my texts, everything. You don’t get to…”
You gestured wildly around your apartment.
“Come here, uninvited mind you, throw your coat on my couch like a stray dog, and act like everything is fine. Fuck you!”
Clark’s expression never wavered, simply watching you let it all out.
It made your stomach twist.
That was the part that confused you most.
Not the coldness, or the sharp tongue, hell not even the strange crimson that’s been flickering beneath her eyes all week.
It was how casual she was.
“You don’t get to pretend nothing happened,” you said, voice thick with crying.
“I know.”
“You don’t get to just show up and—”
She was moving before you finished—three long strides.
Your back met the edge of the counter.
“Clark—”
“Shut up.”
Your breath caught.
“I am trying to be mad at you.”
“Oh, yeah? You’re doing a terrible job.”
“Clark—”
She cut you off, kissing you in the most unexpected, possessive way possible.
By the time your brain caught up, her hands had already found your waist.
The counter dug lightly into the backs of your thighs before the pressure disappeared altogether.
And with effortless strength, Clark lifted you onto the countertop, never breaking the kiss.
“Let me make it up to you, honey.”
Although you were still incredibly angry at her, you figured you could finish arguing with her after she fucked your brains out. You were only human; who had a rough week after all?
Clark has you pinned on your bed, tugging at your nightshirt, exposing your bare breasts.
“Have my girls missed me, sweetheart?”
Ignoring the shiver that ran all over your body, you decided to be bold.
“No… I was fine without you… Capable of taking care of myself.”
Clark harshly pinches your nipple as punishment.
“Please, you know you can’t cum without me.”
Your voice shakes, “I can.”
“Oh, yeah? With what then? Your hands? Or that cheap little toy of yours?”
The sheer terror in your eyes must have been obvious since she chuckles.
“You think I don’t know about that? Have to listen to you play with yourself while I’m across the city?”
You attempt to choke something out, but she interrupts, leaning over to your nightstand, fingers grazing the drawer where it’s hidden.
“Where is it, pretty girl? In here?”
Seconds later, Clark pulls out your vibrator and you see a dark glint flash across her eyes.
“Clar—”
She shakes her head, clicking the vibrator on the lowest setting, placing it onto your mound.
“Did you really think this cheap plastic could replace me?”
Still feeling slightly defiant, you spit, “I only used it because you’ve been a dick.”
Clark glares, the vibrator closer to your clit. The bite of the vibrator compels your hips to jerk. Even on the lowest level, it was still so intense.
“Very mouthy for somebody who is this soaked.”
Your body completely twitches and she anchors a firm grip on your thighs, growling.
“Nuh-uh, sweetheart. You don’t get to move.”
The vibrator runs up and down your slit, causing more wetness to seep through the fabric of your panties.
“Clark… stop teasing me.”
“Oh honey, I still haven’t properly apologized to you yet… that’s what you wanted, isn’t it? For me to say sorry?”
She quickly tosses it aside, making you whine at the sudden loss of friction, “I thought you were going to—”
Clark has an almost evil smirk spread across her face as she grabs your legs, settling down in between your thighs.
“Oh, I was. But you decided to be a brat… gotta fix that first.”
You gaze down at her, watching her rip your panties off you before she moves back up momentarily to guide them into your mouth.
You’re instantly met with the taste of your arousal, muffled whimpers escaping.
She pats your flushed cheek, “There. That ought to keep you from talking back.”
Going back to part your legs, her breath fans over your glistening slit as her hands claw their way onto your ass.
“Oh, look at you. So fucking wet...”
Instead of devouring you like a woman starved as you hoped, she began delivering kitten licks up your slit, marveling at your taste.
“Shit, baby… Forgot how addictive you are.”
The air left your lungs in a sharp wheeze when she ate you out, tongue wrapping around your clit.
Your shrieks are barely heard, your panties serving their purpose, gagging you as you try to slip your hand into her curls.
Clark groans into your core, the aftershocks of the vibration rocking your body. She soon oscillated between slow and deep to faster, relentless strokes against your cunt, nose grinding against your clit.
Every muscle in your body stiffens, squeezing the sides of her head with your thighs as you scream. Just as your orgasm washes over you, tears run down your cheeks.
When Clark pulls away after letting you ride through it, through the blur of your tears, you can see that her chin’s shiny.
And her plump lips were swollen, slick with her own drool and your wetness.
“Good girl.”
She quickly discards her jeans and boxers, tossing them blindly. Clark leans down to yank the underwear out of your mouth so she can kiss you.
Your legs get pushed up to your shoulders as she aligns both of your cunts seamlessly. “Sorry, honey… I need this…”
Clark’s rhythm is unforgiving, rutting into you heavily. Every single contact pushes you closer to your breaking point.
You haven’t even recovered from your first orgasm, scrambling to hold onto anything, seeking some anchor.
“Clark, I-I can’t…. It’s too much.”
She silences you into a searing kiss, driving her hips steadily forward, trapping you beneath her weight—yet your hips instinctively tilt upward to meet every single demanding downward surge.
“Fuck, this feels so good… missed this pussy.”
You endure the pressure build up once more, allowing your body to surrender, poised to make you go unconscious.
“Oh, right there… right there, Clarkie…”
She grins at how you slur, letting out a gravelly groan against your lips. Her muscles lock, shattering her restraint entirely.
The rough pace of her movements keeps you nodding as you fuck each other in perfect harmony.
“I know… I know… come with me, okay? Can you do that for me?”
Your overstimulated walls begin to spasm around nothing, sweat blooming across your forehead as you obey her, release rippling through you.
Her cum spills onto your cunt as you both crash over the edge together, breathless and entirely undone.
Clark collapses onto you, grinding her pelvis forward, even long after you both finish, acting like an untamed animal.
You have to heave her off you, using all of your mortal strength, panting through parted lips.
“Clark… get off me.”
She keeps her face buried into the soft skin of your neck, refusing to move, whining for a while—which surprises you—while feebly humping your thigh.
The movement against your thigh does slow to a halt, but Clark doesn't lift her head, tightening her thick arms around your waist.
Her uneven breathing slowly synchronizes with the steady rise and fall of your chest.
She softly mutters, “Missed you.”
When you woke up in the morning, the first thing you noticed wasn’t the golden sun spilling through the windows.
It was the familiar, empty side of your bed—the rumpled sheets and silence.
Your heart still sank, even if it wasn’t all that surprising anymore.
She’d spent over a week pushing you away before barging into your apartment and turning your world upside down.
Now she was gone.
The thought settled like lead in your stomach, kicking yourself for wishing you’d stood your ground instead of giving in to her.
You sat up, threw on your robe, and went to make a cup of coffee when you faintly heard the clatter of dishes coming from the kitchen.
Completely terrified, you stared at the bedroom door, freezing when footsteps stopped right outside.
Carefully, Clark stepped inside, balancing a wooden tray against one broad forearm. She smiled at you.
“Oh, good! You’re awake.”
Your eyes instantly dropped to the tray.
On it sat pancakes, fresh fruit, freshly brewed coffee in your favorite mug, and a tiny vase holding a single daisy that definitely hadn’t been in your apartment yesterday.
She looked…
Normal.
Her blue eyes were just blue again, none of that strange crimson lurking beneath them. No biting sharpness or dry sarcasm.
Just warm, familiar blue.
Still, you didn’t trust it.
What if she was trying to manipulate you?
Or worse… what if she wasn’t?
Her cheerful expression instantly fell at your uneasy stare, tilting her head like a confused puppy before placing the tray on the nightstand.
“What’s wrong, sweetie?”
“You…” Your voice caught.
“You look…”
She sat beside you on the edge of the bed, her eyes scanning your face.
“Are you okay…?”
You blinked, watching in confusion as Clark pressed the back of her hand to your forehead.
“Did I… go a little too rough last night?”
The question was so painfully, unmistakably Clark that your brain stopped working.
“You don’t look sore, but I pulled out the heating pad just in case. There’s pain medicine in the kitchen if you need it.”
After a moment, Clark paused, looking back at you.
“Honey, I love you… but you’re freaking me out here.”
You reached forward cautiously, your fingertips brushing her cheek.
She leaned into your hand without thinking.
The gesture was so instinctive that something inside you finally unraveled.
A quiet laugh escaped you.
“Where’s the asshole who almost fucked me unconscious last night?”
Clark winced, rubbing the back of her neck.
“Uh… she’s… gone. I hope.”
She reached for your hand, bringing your knuckles to her lips. The touch was so gentle compared to the woman she’d been the night before.
“I’m so sorry, honey. I, um… well, the Justice Gang and I were dealing with Red Kryptonite. We contained it, and I was exposed before any of us realized it. Kara tried to stop me, but I was being stubborn and thought I was going to be fine like last time.”
You raise your eyebrows, “Last time?”
Clark sighed.
“Oh, yeah… I came into contact with some of it in high school. Smaller doses, apparently, compared to what I was exposed to this time.”
You hesitated before asking.
“Do you remember everything from the past week?”
She grimaced.
“Everything, unfortunately…”
Her eyes dropped to your hand in hers.
“I, uh… have a lot of apologies to make.”
You snorted, gently nipping at her nose. “Yeah… you do. Your one from last night was pretty terrible.”
She blushed instantly, groaning into your arm as she hid her face.
“I'll be apologizing to you until I die for that.”
You laughed, tugging her back onto the mattress beside you.
“God, you’re so dramatic sometimes.”
Clark looked longingly at the breakfast tray.
"Babe... what about your food? I worked really hard on it."
You managed to pull her onto the mattress beside you, peppering her face with kisses.
A/N: This is not beta read. I am posting this on a whim. I hope you enjoy, and I'm sorry if it sucks.
It's not like you hated Superman; in fact you found his commitment to humanity to be honorable.
It's just your cat didn't like him, and you trusted your cat's judgment. It was also your boss, Lex Luthor, who hated Superman, so liking him couldn't exactly be possible unless you wanted to be fired.
Your friend Clark, however, loved the superhero. You were pretty sure they were friends, although that was supposed to be a secret, you think. He also hated your boss; well, in his words it was more of a dislike, but everyone knew that was a lie.
Your other friend Lois had mixed reviews. She always said he was flawed as a superhero, that he made mistakes and needed to be held accountable for them, which you agreed with.
All in all, the people in your life had many different opinions on the man, but what you never expected was to meet him.
You found him in an alleyway, beaten up, bloody, and bruised. It was the afternoon, and you were pretty sure there was some sort of world-ending issue happening on the other side of the city. If the light show happening in the distance didn't already clue you in.
"Are you okay?" stupid question, but you still felt as though you should ask, just to be polite.
He groaned, coughing up blood, which was an obvious concern. "I'm fine." He tried to speak, but it only came out as a painful sort of groan. "Yep, totally fine." Blood coated his teeth, and you physically winced at the sight of his blood.
Oh no, this was serious. What do you do? Call for help? But that would mean revealing his and your location, and you had no idea if whatever, or whoever, caused those injuries was looking for him. So you guessed it was just you and him.
"I really don't think you are, sir." You hurried toward him, your hands already sifting through your tote bag to grab the small first aid kit you ordered off Amazon just in case an alien attack happened and you needed medical supplies, because yes, that was a very real possibility.
"You don't have to call me 'sir'; it makes me feel old," he groaned, and you knelt down, leaning forward as you opened the first aid kit, and set it down beside him.
He was lying on his side, curled up protectively in a ball like he was trying to hide away from the world, which you couldn't really blame him for wanting. His suit was all cut up, and the infamous symbol on his chest was now stained with specks of his blood. "I'm going to help you, but I need you to sit up so I can have a better look at your injuries."
"Okay, yeah, that sounds great."
You reached out, and he groaned in pain as you managed to take most of his weight and help him up. He practically collapsed against the wall, his head lolling back and resting against the concrete.
Oh, the poor thing. Whatever happened to him must've been bad to cause this much damage.
"Wow, that, uh, looks bad."
"Thank you for the compliment. You look great."
Clark was right; he really was charming, but now wasn't the time. You reached for your first aid kit, but his hand wrapped around your wrist, stopping you.
"I'll be okay." You looked down and then back up. You highly doubted that with the way he looked.
"You're quite literally bleeding out."
"The sun," he said, nodding toward the flaming star in the sky. "It heals me."
He was right. The cut on his forehead was already closing up. You would be amazed, but to be honest, you had seen much cooler things. It was still impressive, though. You would give him that.
"So what, I'm just supposed to leave you here and let you heal?"
"Preferably, yes."
"I'm sorry if that doesn't exactly fill me with confidence," you blankly stated, quite frankly unimpressed. How were you supposed to just walk away while knowing he was in this alleyway, waiting while he painfully heals?
He chuckled, although it sounded more like a wheeze if anything. "Yeah, I should have expected that. Clark told me you were stubborn."
"I knew it; you guys are friends!"
"You could say that," he shrugged, and he raised a brow as you collapsed next to him, sitting down crisscross-applesauce beside him.
"Soooo." You glanced around the alleyway, taking things in, doing anything to avoid the superhero's gaze burning into your skin. "Clark talks about me?"
Superman smiled, noticeably without the blood this time, and nodded. "All the time."
"Do you like Star Wars?"
"Of course, who doesn't like star wars?" Nevermind. You take back everything you once said about him. Superman was amazing and obviously the superior hero.
"Favorite character, go." Look, you just had to know. I mean, who wouldn't want to know Superman's favorite Star Wars character?
His brows pinched together as he thought over his answer. "Oh, dang, um, I'll have to go with the OG Luke Skywalker." A good choice. Classic.
"I think you two would get along," you stated.
"You really think so?"
"I don't know. It's just the vibes you give off, like sunshine and rainbows."
"Sunshine and rainbows?" He echoed the words like he couldn't believe them, which was weird because he definitely gave off the sunshine and rainbow vibes, and everyone knew it.
"Can I ask what did this to you?"
"I'm going to be honest here; I have no idea. It's all a blur."
Well, that was concerning. "And you're sure the sun will fix all—" You gestured to him and his still half-beaten-up body. "Of that."
"Yep." He popped the 'p' like it was nothing.
"Your poor suit…"
He shrugged. "It'll get fixed. Always does."
"You are being way too chill about this. It's kind of concerning. Are you sure you're okay?"
That earned you a laugh, a real bright laugh that could light up a room. See? Sunshine and rainbows.
"I appreciate the concern, but yes, I am fine er, well, at least I will be in a couple of minutes." He winced as he adjusted his body into a more comfortable position. From what you could see he was indeed healing. The bleeding had clearly stopped, and all of his cuts and bruises were gone. Whatever was left to heal must've been internal.
"And you're gonna go back?"
He really shouldn't, in your opinion, but you knew either way he would. It was just in his nature to help. Even when it got him hurt.
"I have too," he answered, and you watched as he finally managed to stand up.
"Well, I'll be here if you need anything."
He chuckled, amusement flashing across his face. "Thank you," his voice softened, emotions flooding through him.
"You would do the same for me," you shrugged as if it were nothing.
It was everything.
You watched in silent awe as he floated off the ground, and he gave one final wave before shooting up into the sky.
A/N: This is not beta read. I am posting this on a whim. I hope you enjoy, and I'm sorry if it sucks.
It's not like you hated Superman; in fact you found his commitment to humanity to be honorable.
It's just your cat didn't like him, and you trusted your cat's judgment. It was also your boss, Lex Luthor, who hated Superman, so liking him couldn't exactly be possible unless you wanted to be fired.
Your friend Clark, however, loved the superhero. You were pretty sure they were friends, although that was supposed to be a secret, you think. He also hated your boss; well, in his words it was more of a dislike, but everyone knew that was a lie.
Your other friend Lois had mixed reviews. She always said he was flawed as a superhero, that he made mistakes and needed to be held accountable for them, which you agreed with.
All in all, the people in your life had many different opinions on the man, but what you never expected was to meet him.
You found him in an alleyway, beaten up, bloody, and bruised. It was the afternoon, and you were pretty sure there was some sort of world-ending issue happening on the other side of the city. If the light show happening in the distance didn't already clue you in.
"Are you okay?" stupid question, but you still felt as though you should ask, just to be polite.
He groaned, coughing up blood, which was an obvious concern. "I'm fine." He tried to speak, but it only came out as a painful sort of groan. "Yep, totally fine." Blood coated his teeth, and you physically winced at the sight of his blood.
Oh no, this was serious. What do you do? Call for help? But that would mean revealing his and your location, and you had no idea if whatever, or whoever, caused those injuries was looking for him. So you guessed it was just you and him.
"I really don't think you are, sir." You hurried toward him, your hands already sifting through your tote bag to grab the small first aid kit you ordered off Amazon just in case an alien attack happened and you needed medical supplies, because yes, that was a very real possibility.
"You don't have to call me 'sir'; it makes me feel old," he groaned, and you knelt down, leaning forward as you opened the first aid kit, and set it down beside him.
He was lying on his side, curled up protectively in a ball like he was trying to hide away from the world, which you couldn't really blame him for wanting. His suit was all cut up, and the infamous symbol on his chest was now stained with specks of his blood. "I'm going to help you, but I need you to sit up so I can have a better look at your injuries."
"Okay, yeah, that sounds great."
You reached out, and he groaned in pain as you managed to take most of his weight and help him up. He practically collapsed against the wall, his head lolling back and resting against the concrete.
Oh, the poor thing. Whatever happened to him must've been bad to cause this much damage.
"Wow, that, uh, looks bad."
"Thank you for the compliment. You look great."
Clark was right; he really was charming, but now wasn't the time. You reached for your first aid kit, but his hand wrapped around your wrist, stopping you.
"I'll be okay." You looked down and then back up. You highly doubted that with the way he looked.
"You're quite literally bleeding out."
"The sun," he said, nodding toward the flaming star in the sky. "It heals me."
He was right. The cut on his forehead was already closing up. You would be amazed, but to be honest, you had seen much cooler things. It was still impressive, though. You would give him that.
"So what, I'm just supposed to leave you here and let you heal?"
"Preferably, yes."
"I'm sorry if that doesn't exactly fill me with confidence," you blankly stated, quite frankly unimpressed. How were you supposed to just walk away while knowing he was in this alleyway, waiting while he painfully heals?
He chuckled, although it sounded more like a wheeze if anything. "Yeah, I should have expected that. Clark told me you were stubborn."
"I knew it; you guys are friends!"
"You could say that," he shrugged, and he raised a brow as you collapsed next to him, sitting down crisscross-applesauce beside him.
"Soooo." You glanced around the alleyway, taking things in, doing anything to avoid the superhero's gaze burning into your skin. "Clark talks about me?"
Superman smiled, noticeably without the blood this time, and nodded. "All the time."
"Do you like Star Wars?"
"Of course, who doesn't like star wars?" Nevermind. You take back everything you once said about him. Superman was amazing and obviously the superior hero.
"Favorite character, go." Look, you just had to know. I mean, who wouldn't want to know Superman's favorite Star Wars character?
His brows pinched together as he thought over his answer. "Oh, dang, um, I'll have to go with the OG Luke Skywalker." A good choice. Classic.
"I think you two would get along," you stated.
"You really think so?"
"I don't know. It's just the vibes you give off, like sunshine and rainbows."
"Sunshine and rainbows?" He echoed the words like he couldn't believe them, which was weird because he definitely gave off the sunshine and rainbow vibes, and everyone knew it.
"Can I ask what did this to you?"
"I'm going to be honest here; I have no idea. It's all a blur."
Well, that was concerning. "And you're sure the sun will fix all—" You gestured to him and his still half-beaten-up body. "Of that."
"Yep." He popped the 'p' like it was nothing.
"Your poor suit…"
He shrugged. "It'll get fixed. Always does."
"You are being way too chill about this. It's kind of concerning. Are you sure you're okay?"
That earned you a laugh, a real bright laugh that could light up a room. See? Sunshine and rainbows.
"I appreciate the concern, but yes, I am fine er, well, at least I will be in a couple of minutes." He winced as he adjusted his body into a more comfortable position. From what you could see he was indeed healing. The bleeding had clearly stopped, and all of his cuts and bruises were gone. Whatever was left to heal must've been internal.
"And you're gonna go back?"
He really shouldn't, in your opinion, but you knew either way he would. It was just in his nature to help. Even when it got him hurt.
"I have too," he answered, and you watched as he finally managed to stand up.
"Well, I'll be here if you need anything."
He chuckled, amusement flashing across his face. "Thank you," his voice softened, emotions flooding through him.
"You would do the same for me," you shrugged as if it were nothing.
It was everything.
You watched in silent awe as he floated off the ground, and he gave one final wave before shooting up into the sky.
I've been thinking about the direction I want this blog to take, and as I start to write more mature, darker content, I have decided that if you follow me and do not have a age in your bio, you will be blocked. I do not want minors seeing my work, especially my darker ones, and I'm not gonna risk it. So please, put your age in your bio or you will be blocked.
(nsfw)......Being roommates with Clark and Lois, not thinking much of being roomies with a couple — that is, until they both start fucking you behind each other's backs.
You never thought much of crashing in the spare room of Clark and Lois’s apartment. They were the perfect couple—him with his shy smile and glasses perpetually askew, her with that razor-sharp wit. Just cheap rent in Metropolis, and you figured the walls were thick enough. Until they weren’t.
It started with Clark. One night, the power went out during a storm. Lois was chasing a lead downtown. You found him in the kitchen, shirt unbuttoned, muscles shifting under moonlight. “Can’t sleep?” he murmured, voice low. Next thing you knew, he had you bent over the counter, hands pinning your wrists, dick stretching you open in deep, relentless strokes while he whispered apologies that sounded more like prayers. “Just needed you… fuck, you feel so good.” You came so hard you saw stars.
Three nights later, Lois cornered you in the laundry room. She tasted like coffee and sin, fingers sliding under your waistband while she smirked against your mouth. “Clark’s an idiot if he thinks I don’t notice how you walk after he’s had you.” Then she dropped to her knees, tongue working you until your legs shook, two fingers curling just right while she looked up with those knowing eyes.
Now it’s a delicious, filthy secret. Clark fucks you slow and devastating in the mornings when Lois is in the shower, hand over your mouth so you don’t moan his name too loud. Lois fucks you on the couch some afternoons, nails raking down your chest, whispering how much tighter you get when you’re trying not to get caught.
They still kiss each other goodnight like nothing’s changed. But every shared glance across the dinner table now holds heat—two predators circling the same prey, unaware they’re both already feasting. And you? You’re just trying not to smile too wide when they ask how your day was.
summary: in the midst of trying something new in bed, your girlfriend, clark, manages to fuck you better than she ever has—if that’s even possible.
word count: 595
tag list: @punksnotdeadbutiam, @unabashedlyinlovewithyou,@whotfisthatsblog,@wildernessmuse, @starwarsbian, @lilacsandlavenderhaze, @florayli, @gingerfemme22, @peachyvillehorror, @cerezzzita, @kryptidfiles, @garrettgr4h4m, @rynwritesstuff, & @bellathebookdevouer | wanna be added?
content warning: 18+ only!!! clark fucks you with your head hanging over the edge of the mattress. not sure if there’s a term for that certain thing. strap on sex (reader receiving) and plenty of praise. strap being referred to as her cock. not proofread like always, i apologize.
a/n: hi guys. I KNOW I KNOW that i just posted like two days ago, but i had to get this idea out of my brain so enjoy. go read suga mama if you haven’t yet since that one took me almost two weeks to finish 😭😭😭
listen to the song for the full experience
“I wanna try something new,” Clark told you before she guided you to the edge of the mattress, your head hanging off it while your body lay flat against the cotton sheets.
Now you’re watching yourself get split in two as the position sends blood rushing to your head, breasts bouncing with each deep thrust of Clark’s strap.
She hovers over you, hot breath fanning your face as she pumps in and out.
“Golly, sweetheart. Look at you… so pretty.”
She leans in to mark your neck with more hickeys, as if you already didn’t have enough of them.c
You cry out when the tip hits that sweet spot of yours, legs wrapped around her waist.
Her fingernails dig into the sides of your thighs as yours sink into her shoulder blades, slightly fearful that you might still fall, despite her tight grip on you.
Clark watches your back arch while you choke on your own moans, her pace completely and utterly relentless.
You try lifting your head to see her, but she shakes her head no. She wraps one of her hands around your neck, fingers pressing into your skin, attempting to keep you down.
“No, sweetie. Just let yourself go and feel it for me, alright?”
You nod, the dizziness returning as she continues to stretch you out.
The wet sounds of your whimpers and skin slapping together echo throughout your bedroom.
“Oh, fuck, Clark!”
She spreads your legs wider, causing your brain to short-circuit before pulling out just to push back in harshly.
Clark buries herself in the crook of your neck, her kisses becoming sloppier, groaning as if she could feel you tightening around the toy.
“Come on, pretty girl… can feel you milking me…”
Your body reacts to each surge she gives you, letting out a loud cry when the strap hits so profound that you feel it in your lower gut.
“Y-yes Clark, please, it’s so good.”
She nibbles on your earlobe, sensually whispering into it, “Yeah? Are you close… Can you do that for me?”
A gasp escapes your lips in response, your mind hazing as the tension within your core dares to snap—washing over you like a wave.
Clark hovers over to your mouth to kiss you, swallowing your soft cries as she doubles down on her pace, driving the strap further into you.
You close your eyes momentarily and see nothing but stars, but then her hand lightly grips your jaw, forcing them open again.
“No, sweetie… Eyes on me when you come.”
The tension heightens, making it almost impossible to breathe. “Oh, Clark— I’m so close… please.”
She smirks, her eyes darkening with affection.
“Oh, I know… I got you, just come for me, alright?”
You shudder as she orders your compliance, fucking you harder. The pleasure finally breaks, and your world shatters into pure, blinding color. You sob into her mouth as the orgasm crashes over you, melting your body into warm jelly.
She lets out a low, gravelly groan at the sensation, her pace faltering as she slowly rides out your climax.
She keeps you completely still against the mattress, holding you through your heavy tremors beneath your thighs.
In your afterglow haze, you whine at the feeling of loss as the strap slowly draws out of you.
Clark teasingly pouts, her face flushed and her blue eyes incredibly soft.
“Don't cry, babygirl, I'm right here.”
She presses a gentle, lingering kiss to your sweaty forehead, brushing back loose strands behind your ear.
“You did so good for me, sweetheart. Just breathe.”
