＼＼\٩(๑`^´๑)۶//／

mediocre fanfic writer that can’t grasp grammar! ᕦ(ò_óˇ)ᕤ || minors dni! || sfw & nsfw 20

[crstilia]

Masterlist (*ﾟ▽ﾟ*)

Genshin Impact

Diluc x Reader - NSFW

One Piece

Law x Reader - NSFW

Smoker x Reader - NSFW

Koby x Reader - NSFW

Arcane

Various characters actor au

Dispatch

The Z-team finding out Sonar has a GF - NSFW-ish

The Z-team finding out Waterboy has a GF - SFW pt.1

“At least Waterboy can get a girl wet” Waterboy x GF pt.2

Waterboy x GF Reader headcanons - SFW, NSFW

[shapsara]

Negative Space

Pairing: Estranged Husband! Arthur Morgan x F!Reader

WC: 4.1K

Summary: A fender-bender forces Arthur back into your life, temporarily.

Warnings: 18+ sexual content, oral sex, premature ejaculation, mutual masturbation, marriage, divorce, fingering, arthur is very pathetic, reader is implied to be a lawyer but can be any legal job, or ngo. mommy issues, fluff, angst, hospitals, injuries, car accidents

photo credits: the supremely talented @colterblues

Shapsara's masterlist

prev part/next part

A/N: Title is taken from a poem called Negative Space by Luljeta Lleshanaku. Took a teensy much-needed break from writing but have come back to edit and post this. I'm having so much fun with this little series. Milly was my best friend's dog who sadly passed last year. She was a sweetheart and is forever remembered in this fic. I still need to name this series, so do let me know if you have any ideas! I'm awful at coming up with titles. Thank you to lovely Meghan for chatting about this series with me; it would not be possible without you. I am giving you the most affectionate cat forehead bonk. I hope you enjoy and consider letting me know what you think. xx

You do not even see the car when it hits yours.

It is early, as it always is. The leather of your shoes bites into your heels, and the coffee you've ladled into your thermos is too bitter despite those expensive coffee beans you get. You are not thinking of much other than the long day ahead. Letters, swimming on a page, stories full to the brim with gore and tragedy. It has been three months since Arthur left your apartment. You have sent him letters from your lawyers, a polite text message, even an email. Nothing.

When the car hits yours, you are thinking about the cookware. You don't need all those plates and dishes and forks with fancy handles; you work far too much for dinner parties. Besides, it is just you in that apartment. Arthur can have the dish sets; he has the Martsons. Dutch, Hosea. All that family he has forged from nothing; you only have the family that you were born with. Even they do not visit often enough to need fancy dishes.

The car hits yours with a colossal shatter. Glass and the faltering engine. The horrified shout of the driver. Then, there is nothing save a strange blur. Someone shrieks in the background, and you smell disinfectant, latex.

You wake to the chirp of machines and an ache that extends to the tips of your fingers and toes. You shift and find that you cannot; a thick cast covers your right wrist and your ankle. You reach with your left hand and a warm, wide palm catches yours. You blink. Blue eyes peer into yours anxiously.

"Hey," Arthur murmurs, his fingers closing over yours. "Hospital called me." He says. "You weren't—you hit your head."

"It hurts." The voice comes out frightened, hoarse.

"I know. You got pretty banged up."

"My car?"

"Gone."

"Am I going to die?" You muse foolishly.

Arthur laughs, a soft, relieved sound that echoes comfortingly in the far corners of your mind.

"Nah. Your ankles broke, and your wrist. They had to sedate you; you were talkin' crazy." His hand comes to cradle the top of your head. "But it ain't too bad. You'll be alright."

"Why are you here?" You mumble.

"Told you. I'm your emergency contact."

"Will you call my mom?"

Arthur grimaces.

"Already did, sweetheart. She ain't gonna make it this week."

"Oh."

"She said she'll try and make it when you're home."

"Home." You whisper. The red door and wind chimes, the sagging velvet couch. Arthur's sketches on the fridge and the old grandfather clock.

"Yeah. They just gotta run a few more tests and see how you're feelin', and then I'll take you to your place."

"Thank you," You whisper, shutting your eyes.

"For what?" He smooths your hair back.

By the time you can think of an answer, the doctor comes in. She has a kind face and asks you insane questions and to follow her finger with your eyes. Your name, the date and Arthur's name are all asked, and you find you can answer. She leaves, finally, and you can shut your eyes.

The three more days you spend in the hospital are quiet ones. To your immense surprise, Arthur stays with you despite your repeated insistence that you can call a friend. He gets you the vanilla yoghurt pots from the cafeteria and watches you eat them. He does not complain once, despite the violet cast under his eyes and the scraggly stubble that creeps up his jaw and chin. You are irritable with him, falling into an age-old familiarity. But he does not snipe back; he is only quietly amused at your indignation being kept on an IV line or, having blood taken. When you are discharged, he wheels you into the parking lot and pauses when you get to his old car.

"Will you be okay in a car?"

"No, Arthur. Have you got a horse?"

"Nice to see you're feeling better." He mutters as he slips an arm under your knees to lift you into the passenger seat of the car. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the rearview mirror. Your face and jaw are bruised, your lip is split, and your hair is wild. The laceration on your temple has scabbed over and darkened under it's stitches/

"You look—" Arthur pauses, "You look like you got hit by a car."

A laugh bubbles in the back of your sore throat. You wince as a giggle spills out, and his face relaxes into a smile and then a twin reel of laughter. It is a good few minutes before Arthur can compose himself enough to drive.

When you reach your apartment, he helps you through the door and deposits you on the couch.

"You want something to eat? Or drink?"

"You should go home."

"Tea?"

"What about your dog?"

"John's got her. Should have some sugar in it. You ain't had much to eat in the past couple days."

"You never responded."

"To what?" He passes the mug, steadying it in your hand.

"My list."

"Christ. Is that what that was?"

"Yes. My itemised list. You said we'd do this the easy way."

"Let up. We'll sort it out after you're feeling better."

"I am feeling better." You say, sipping the tea. "Well enough to read a list."

"I've slept five hours in the last three days. I ain't well enough."

"Well, go home and rest then." You say irritably,

"Who's gonna make sure you don't die gettin' into the shower?"

"Chelsea."

"Chelsea's 4 feet." He scoffs. "She couldn't lift a feather."

"We'll be fine. I can manage."

Arthur ignores this and sits beside you on the couch, pulling the throw on the back of it and spreading it over your lap.

"Want to switch on a movie?"

When you glare at him, he scowls right back at you.

"So we ain't gotta talk to each other."

"Fine. A movie."

Flicking through the assortment of action movies with blaring trailers and a western romance involving some destined-for-death cowboy and working girl, you settle on one. A black-and-white film with paper sets and hair that defies all laws of gravity. The day passes with little conversation; Arthur dozes on the couch and jerks awake at your every shift. The movie is quiet, all soft-spoken confessions and foggy landscapes. The afternoon sun pours through the windows, making your eyelids droop. You find yourself, curled against Arthur. That old familiarity of watching a movie together. Murmuring, he puts an arm around your shoulders, and you are too tired and sore to chide him for it. You bury your nose in the collar of his t-shirt.

"You smell." You mumble, without moving.

"You don't smell too fresh either." His lips brush your forehead.

You wake later that evening, your ankle propped on a cushion and tucked into the throw. Arthur emerges from the kitchen; he's changed and showered.

"Went home to get clothes." He says quietly. "You wanna do somethin' about your hair?"

You reach up with your uninjured hand to the mess of braids plastered against your skull.

Arthur helps you up, your hand tucked into the crook of his elbow. You lean against the sink and try fruitlessly to undo the ties of your sweatpants. He kneels on the bathroom floor and undoes them for you.

"Can turn around."

"Nothing you haven't seen before."

"I know. I just figured you might—"

You stare at him. Arthur hooks his fingers into the waistband of your sweatpants, and you look down at the mottled expanse of your stomach and legs.

"Sore?"

"Yeah." You bite your lip.

"Think you can lift your foot?"

Bracing a hand on his shoulder, you do, and the sweatpants come in a heap at your feet.

"Raise your arms." And he lifts your loose, sweaty t-shirt over your head. Keeping his eyes fixed on your face, he helps you into the tub. He adjusts your limbs so your wrist and ankle are clear of water.

"Comfortable?"

"Mm."

Carefully, he pulls the ties holding your hair in its braids and loosens them with his fingers.

"Don't pull so hard." You snap, as one jerks free.

"Ain't pulling on purpose." He fires back.

"Feels like you are."

Finally, when they are more or less free, he pulls the showerhead from the side of the bath and runs it over his hand.

"Tell me if the water's too hot."

He runs water over your head and the hot water feels good.

"Do you remember—" Arthur pauses. "—when you used to work at that firm?"

"Which one?"

"The real shitty one. It was in like—a basement, and you was comin' home at like eight—nine o'clock?"

"Ison Anderson?"

"Yeah. That was it." He works his fingers through your dripping hair. "You were always so tired after. Used to ask me to do this all the time."

"That was when we first started dating." You say, in surprise. "I'd forgotten about that place. I was only there—what? 6 months?"

"'Cause you hated it."

"God. Yeah, I did."

"You was always too good for that place."

"You sound like my mom."

"Says that a lot, does she?" His hand stills in your hair.

"She's mellowed out." You look at him beseechingly.

"Sure. 'Bout as mellow as a wildfire."

"Arthur." You chide. "She just cares about me."

"That's why she's here."

"She's coming soon. She messaged me." You say quietly. "Jerry isn't well."

"Right. What's he got this time? A cold?" Arthur overturns the bottle of shampoo into his palm and pours what can only be described as a lake of raspberry shampoo into his palms.

"The flu." You mutter. "He's got the flu."

Arthur snorts and rubs his palms together in the motion you taught him. You have to emulsify the shampoo, Arthur. Not just plop it on. Emulsify. He makes such a thorough job of it when he opens his palms; they are covered in pale pink foam. Arthur shampoos your hair, seething quietly at the thought of Jerry's sinuses. You shiver and try to ignore the truth in his voice. Why isn't she here? You've been independent of her so long: college, first job. Marriage, now divorce. But those few groggy moments when you'd woken up in Saint Agnes, you'd felt newly made, a child in pain. In need of a mother. Arthur has stopped, you realise, and his hand rests on your shoulder.

"You okay?" He says, bending his head so he is eye level with you. "Not dizzy? The water's hot."

"I'm okay."

"Good," Arthur says, his face softening. "I'm sure she wants to be here. She's just busy."

You nod.

Next, he conditions your hair without you asking him to, working the thick globs of it through the ends of your hair, just like you'd taught him years ago. The pain medication and the hot water, his presence make you sleepy, and when Arthur gathers you in his arms and towells you off, you are mostly asleep. It is an odd feeling, to be immobile in this way. You exist in the circle of his arms and the steadying rhythm of his breaths. Lifting you into bed, he props your ankle up on a pillow and tucks the duvet around your shoulders. The apartment is far too cold, and you are barely aware of the kiss pressed to your hair. You open your mouth to say you are cold and ask where he will sleep. But he is gone; the door clicked shut behind him. You lie awake for some time, listening to him shuffle around your living room and kitchen, waiting for the buzz of the elevator that will tell you he is leaving. It never comes.

When you wake, you find your crutch and limp into the living room. Arthur is already up.

"Did you sleep on the couch?"

"Yeah. Thought I'd stick around a few days. Till you're back on your feet."

"I don't need you to do that."

"At least until your mom gets here."

You bite your lip.

. . .

Arthur's habits have changed over the year you've been separated. The smell of cigarettes that used to hang around him is gone, replaced with the constant tic of his jaw chewing nicotine gum and the patches you see under the frayed collars of his shirts. He's tidier too, living out of a worn old backpack he must have taken from his brief trips back to the house. He sleeps less; you often wake to the sound of his pacing in the living room or kitchen. And often—you must remind yourself that you cannot go outside and cajole him into bed like you once could. And you find—you want to. You want to drag your aching limbs outside and run your hand up his belly and say: Arthur, baby. I'm cold. Come back to bed. Sometimes you cannot sleep until you hear the telltale thump of his body on the couch. In the day, he makes you the simple food that he must be used to eating on his own. Eggs, porridge, cut fruit, potatoes cooked in the oven.

The third week, it becomes like routine. You can limp around the house and work in short stints. Arthur hunches over your laptop and dutifully types out emails. And forms that you dictate to him. He drives you to the appointment to take out the stitches in your temple and lets you squeeze his hand as they do it. The nurse coos over the two of you. Arthur brings over his dog. A dopey, golden-haired dog called Milly. She zooms around the apartment—too big paws slipping off the leather couch. Eventually, she tires herself enough to watch a couple of episodes of Real Housewives with you while Arthur shouts at John about some construction fuck-up. For the first time in years, you are immobilised by illness or injury. You, the person who would never let a cold or stomach bug keep you from work, or a divorce make you take time off. It is nice to rest.

Tonight, though, you are restless. Your leg itches in the cast, and the uselessness of your wrist irks you. You sit up. Slipping out of bed, you limp to the living room. The TV is on, low volume, some sports game playing. Arthur is slumped on the couch, his torso bare and wearing the drawstringed pyjama pants he's had as long as you've known him.

"The hell you walkin' around for?"

You find your way to the couch before your legs give out from under you.

"I can't sleep."

He looks sympathetic.

"Have some water and try again."

"What's this?" You point to the television.

"Croquet. It'll send you off alright."

He's warm, his body radiating heat beside you. He's filled out a bit, working more. It's more obvious with his chest bare. His stomach is softer too, probably the drinking you'd hated so much.

"Thank you for looking after me." You say quietly. "You've done a lot."

"Don't thank me." He mutters, and even in the glow of the TV, you can see him flush.

"I appreciate it. I don't want this to be bitter."

"Bitter." He repeats. "No. We wouldn't want that."

Arthur looks at you, and you squirm under the gaze.

"C'mon. I'll help you back to bed."

You balance your good hand on his arm, and he helps you into the bed. He lifts your ankle onto a pillow.

"You want a hot drink or something? Might help."

"I'm just—I don't know. Itchy."

"Itchy?"

"Yes. My wrist and my leg and everything. My skin feels too tight." You finish helplessly.

"That ain't a thing that happens."

"It's happening to me." You say crossly.

"Right. Diagnosis is that your skin is too tight and itchy."

"It's not funny."

"Jesus. Where's your sense of humour gone?"

"That's itchy too." You groan.

"Try to relax."

"I wish I'd thought of that." You snap. "Thank you, Dr Morgan."

"Close your eyes." He says soothingly. "Think of a…of a lake."

"A lake."

"Shut your eyes." He says sternly. "A lake with fish. You're fishin'"

"Are you putting yourself to sleep or me?"

"There's sturgeon and bluegill and—" He goes on dreamily.

"Stop it. I hate fish."

"That used to help you." He says indignantly.

"It was back when I liked the sound of your voice."

"Some thanks that is," Arthur grumbles. "You liked it fine when you was having those nightmares about that case. Where that man got gutted."

"Disembowelled. He was disembowelled."

"Yeah, yeah. Same thing."

"Fish get gutted. Men get disembowelled." You shift uncomfortably.

"Right. What would help, then?"

"I don't know." You say miserably.

"Aw." He touches your arm, and it sends an odd bolt of heat through you.

"Fuck me." You say suddenly.

"Must've really hit your head." Arthur rolls his eyes and turns away from you, the freckled muscles in his back shifting.

"No. It used to help me sleep. I always slept after."

"I ain't doin' that. Last time—that was a mistake."

"We didn't even sleep together."

"Came pretty damn close." He says sharply. "It ain't good for us."

"We aren't even divorced yet."

"I thought you wanted a clean break?" He says fiercely. "You said that was the last time."

"This can be the last time," You say recklessly. "Arthur—please. I haven't been able to sleep in days."

"Take your pills." He says firmly. "You'll fall asleep."

"They don't work. I don't want them. I want you."

"No. You don't. You're bored."

"Arthur. Please. I'd take care of it myself if I could." You raise your splinted wrist.

Arthur looks pained.

"Please." You repeat, softening your voice, raising your eyes to him beseechingly.

"Jesus. Fine. Ain't gonna fuck you though."

"Why not?"

"'Cause you got hit by a car. I don't feel right about it."

"You can be gentle." You chirp, the knot in your chest easing. Arthur will fix it; he always does.

"You're already pushing it."

"Fine. Fine. I'll be good. Just help me sleep."

"Lie down, then."

You obey, slumping back against the pillows. Arthur comes to sit beside you, on the edge of the bed. He's still for a moment. Just looking at you, his gaze flickering to the hard peaks of your nipples under your sleep shirt.

"You said you missed me." You say, looking up at him.

"I did." He sighs. "I miss you all the time, but this ain't good for us."

Arthur settles a big hand on your stomach, fingers sinking into the soft flesh. It creeps lower, slipping into the waistband of your sleep shorts.

"You wanna take these off?"

You nod and try to lift your hips to claw them off yourself; he pushes you back down with a firm hand.

"Slow."

"Don't be like that." You groan as he removes the shorts gently, leaving you bare.

"Jesus Christ." He mutters as he sees the glistening fluid leaking from your cunt. "Been walkin' around with no underwear."

"Limping." You are sure he can feel the heat radiating from your cunt, the sticky noise it makes when he reaches to spread it apart in his fingers.

Slowly, he eases the tip of his finger into the opening. You gasp, arching upwards, and he tuts softly.

"Quit. We'll do this my way." He murmurs, a glint of humour in his eyes.

"Alright, Arthur. But please—don't—don't tease."

"Relax. I won't. I ain't like you."

"What does—oh—that mean?" Arthur grins as he crooks his index finger inside of you, making you grab his wrist clumsily.

"Means I ain't a sadist," Arthur says smugly, ignoring your tiny whines.

"I'm not." You grit your teeth.

"That little performance last time was sadistic." He says, and brings another finger to the entrance of your cunt. "Callin' me was sadistic. Lettin' me in to your house was sadistic. Lettin' me eat you out was sadistic."

"You begged." You say, temper flaring, and he slides the second finger in, using one huge hand to press down on your stomach.

"Sure. I did." He leans over you, the scent of toothpaste and soap and skin filling your senses. "Shh. It's alright. I said I ain't like you. Don't get yourself all twist up."

Another finger, and the slippery, squelching sound it makes; your skin burns hot, desire winds around your ribs, lives in the lining of your skin. You missed him. You missed him so much, and how can you tell him now? When he thinks so poorly of you.

In, and out. He sets a steady rhythm, applying the softest pressure to your clit. The gentle movement of his thumb circling it, the soothing noises he makes as you clutch at his bicep weakly, fingernails making indents in his freckled skin.

"Arthur—I think. I'm going to—"

"Nah. Not yet. Ask nicely."

"Why are you—?" He releases the delicious pressure on your clit, and you flail a little. Arching your back, you search for that friction again.

"Just wanna hear you ask. That's all." He says, all gentle-like.

Before you can think, your mouth fits itself around the word "Please."

"Arthur, please. Please. Let me come. I missed you so much—and I'm so sleepy." Your breath hitches as he presses down on your clit again, your cunt pulses.

"Tell me you missed me again," Arthur says, his voice hoarse. "Then you can come."

"I missed you. I think about you all the time. I miss your cock inside of my mouth and my pussy," You sound ridicoulous, a dribble of vulgar truths slipping from your lips. They are truths—not the brief flashes of loneliness when you come to your apartment, the half-asleep pull to another body, the empty side of the bed. Truths. You missed him. "I missed you so much. I couldn't sleep or—"

"Shh. Alright. It's alright. I'm here now." He leans over you again, his chapped lips brushing your cheek and hair. "You can come."

You come on his fingers, grinding up into the heel of his palm. But he does not stop; he keeps them inside of you, a slow movement that makes you tighten around him weakly.

"Arthur, what are you—?" You whimper as he picks up the pace again. "It's too much I can't—"

"You can. Relax."

"No. No, I'll—" You cover your mouth with your palm, biting into the soft meat of it. "It's too much—"

"Let me see your face." He reaches up, prying your fingers away from your face. "Think you can give me another?"

"Arthur. It's so—it, I can't." You mumble, beads of sweat and tears coursing down your temple.

You come and your eyesight blurs, the blue of his eyes melting into green and the low light of the lamp setting the whole room ablaze. Arthur sighs somewhere in the distance, and out of the corner of your eye, you see him guiltily press his fingers to his mouth. Then, you are very sleepy and briefly aware of a warm cloth on your thighs and a sheet being tucked over you. You reach out, and a warm hand catches yours.

"You okay?" Arthur says, sitting back down; the mattress dips with his weight.

"Mm."

"Wasn't—wasn't too much, was it?"

"No." You mumble and press your cheek to the pillow.

"Alright. Well, I'll leave you to rest."

"Stay." You murmur. "Stay. Couch is bad for your back."

"I reckon I'll be alright another night on the couch." Arthur says, a hint of laughter in his voice. Guilt pierces through the sleepy haze.

"I want you to stay. Please."

He does not answer, but rises from the bed. Your heart sinks when he disappears into the bathroom. But he comes around the other side of the bed and fits himself against your spine. The touch is tentative, at first, but his hands are warm as they creep up your stomach.

"Rest, now." He says softly, and you are about to question the hardness of his cock against your lower back, but a yawn stoppers it, and you sleep.

Arthur's face, drained of its colour, peers over you the next morning. You sit up in bed. His hair is combed, beard clipped, and his shirt is tucked in to one of those awful belt buckles that you were always on him to get rid of.

"Mornin'." He says quietly. "Your mother's here."

taglist: @thorst @honeycoyotes @revolvers-and-her-reveries @stupidgaynerd @essiewrites @photo1030 @mezzaninebeetle55 @thundermartini @gonewestward

[bittersweetlyblue]

clark kent x female!sweetheart!reader — "i don't like superman."

clark learns this about you three weeks into working together.

it happens over coffee. one of your coworkers is rambling excitedly about another rescue on the news, smiling as they point toward the television mounted in the corner of the bullpen.

"...and then superman just caught the entire train before it hit the bridge." someone else laughs. "he's unbelievable." "i swear, metropolis would fall apart without him."

everyone nods. everyone except you. you take a sip of your coffee. "i don't really likesuperman."

the newsroom goes strangely quiet. clark nearly chokes. "you don't?" jimmy blurts out.

you shrug. "not really."

clark blinks. "why?"

your answer comes so easily it almost hurts. "i just don't."

the conversation follows him for the rest of the day. you don't like superman. it's such a bizarre sentence that he keeps replaying it in his head. most people love superman, or admire him. or at the very least appreciate him. but you... you genuinely don't seem to.

over the next few weeks, clark starts paying attention. every time someone brings up superman, you smile politely before changing the subject. when kids run around pretending to fly, you smile at them, never the hero they're pretending to be. you never buy into the hype. you never roll your eyes either. it's just... indifference.

eventually he asks carefully. you're walking back from lunch together. "can i ask you something?"

"of course."

"why don't you like superman?"

you look at him. "you really wanna know?"

"yeah."

you think for a second. "i think people rely on him too much."

"how?"

"whenever something goes wrong, everyone just says, 'superman will fix it.'" you gesture toward the city around you. "i don't know." "it feels..." you search for the right word. "...unhealthy." clark stays quiet so you continue. "i'm grateful for what he does. i really am but i don't think one person should have to carry the weight of an entire city."

his steps slow. "what do you mean?"

you shrug. "he's still... someone. people act like he isn't. everyone expects him to save them. every single time."

clark completely forgets how to walk. that's not what he expected. he thought you'd call him arrogant. instead... you feel sorry for him.

after that, something changes. clark starts noticing the little things. every time the news praises superman for another impossible rescue... you don't smile. you just quietly say, "i hope he's okay."

when people complain that superman wasn't fast enough... you immediately defend him. "he can't be everywhere."

when a headline reads SUPERMAN FAILS TO PREVENT BUILDING COLLAPSE you're the first person to look annoyed. "he still saved everyone inside."

"you said you didn't like him." clark points out one afternoon.

you nod. "i don't. but i don't think people are fair to him. those are different things."

he stares. "how?"

you laugh. "clark. you can dislike someone and still think they deserve kindness." his heart melts a little.

he tries. god, he tries. he starts smiling more during rescues. waves at crowds. lets little kids take pictures. helps old ladies cross the street. returns lost dogs. anything. anything that might make you like superman just a little more.

one evening he lands after stopping a robbery. the police thank him. reporters surround him. he answers a few questions. then—

"superman?" he turns. it's you. walking home with groceries tucked against your hip.

his entire face lights up. "...hi."

you blink."hi."

he tries not to smile too much but fails immediately. "everything okay?"

"yeah." you glance toward the reporters. "just wanted to say..." he waits. "...thanks."

his chest warms. "...for what?"

"my neighbor works in that bank. you saved her."

he ducks his head. "a-anyone would've."

"...no." you shake your head. "they couldn't have." there's a brief silence. then you add, "...still don't like you very much, though."

clark's face falls so fast it's almost comical. "oh."

you have to bite your lip. he looks disappointed, like a puppy who just got told he couldn't come inside.

"sorry." he rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. "guess i've... got some work to do." before you can answer, he smiles politely and takes off into the sky.

that night you're still thinking about his face. not offended. not annoyed. he looked like he'd actually wanted your approval.

a week later you're eating lunch with clark. he's absentmindedly stirring sugar into his coffee. "can i ask you something?"

he looks up. "sure."

"does superman..." you hesitate. "always look that... disappointed?"

clark nearly spits out his drink. "what?"

"last week." you fiddle with your napkin. "when i told him i didn't like him he looked..." you sigh. "really sad."

clark has to look away before he starts smiling. "well..." he says carefully. "maybe.. he just wanted you to like him?"

you laugh. "why?"

he shrugs. "maybe he likes making people happy. i guess."

"if you ever see him." you smile sheepishly. "tell him i don't dislike him as much anymore."

"really?"

"yeah." you laugh quietly. "he's growing on me." clark's grin is so impossibly wide that you stop mid-sentence. "what?"

"nothing." he clears his throat. "just..." he can't help it. "i think he'd be really happy to hear that."

you smile. "you think?"

clark nods immediately. "more than you know."

and later that evening, when superman rescues a cat from a tree despite the owner insisting it wasn't necessary... he's smiling so brightly the entire city notices.

nobody understands why. except one very flustered reporter sitting at her apartment window, looking up at the streak of blue across the sunset. "he really is kind of adorable."

high above the city, clark hears it and nearly flies straight into a billboard.

© BITTERSWEETLYBLUE 2026. do not copy, translate, edit my work then claim it as your own, attempt to plagarise or repost it on any other website nor feed into AI. you will be blocked.

[kissesforkent]

When Did You Get Hot? - CK x Reader

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Summary - Returning to Smallville after years away, you expect to find the same awkward farm boy who was once your best friend. What you don't expect is realizing somewhere along the way, Clark Kent got… really hot.

Warnings - Smut (Unprotected PIV, praise kink kinda, perv!reader, hyperspermia), Bulky farm boy Clark, fem!reader, a lil oblivious!Clark, pre-Superman | WC: 4.3k!

A/N: Thank you, everybody, for all the support. My other hcs are blowing up, and I'm so so grateful. I'm like two followers away from 200, and I want to write something special, so give me any ideas or requests! Roommate!Clark full fic coming soon, enjoy, I used lots of the Birthright comic book while writing this! <3

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Back in the day in the little town of Smallville, nothing but childish games, laughter, and running through the fields during summer mattered. When you visited your aunt’s house for the summer, befriending the shy little boy across the way, who always offered you his coolest toys and helped you climb trees. Back then, nothing could break the inseparable bond you both had, despite not seeing each other for months at a time. 

Every time he knew you were coming back to Smallville, Ma Kent helped him put together a little bouquet for you. He’d jog—or maybe dash like a blur—over to your aunt's home. He’d say hi to the old border collie, whose fur around the eyes was only getting grayer and grayer by the day. Then, he knocked on the front door, holding the pretty flowers to his chest hopefully. His advanced eyes would focus on the pollen-filled air as he gave a big smile, his front tooth missing and big blue eyes eager to play. When your aunt answered the door, she grinned. “What do I owe you for this pleasure?” she asked, a warm laugh bubbling from her chest as she stepped aside to let him in. “Is she here? Can she play?” Clark asked excitedly, holding the flowers out to your aunt. “I brought these for her; Ma helped me make them!” Your aunt's heart melted at this eager little boy, giving him a nod. “In her room.”

The summer stayed like that. Where you’d sneak into his room after you’d been strictly told not to, making shadow puppets with a flashlight; sometimes he’d even bring you on a small fly. Of course you knew about his powers; you were his best friend. His favorite friend. You’d cling to his back as he flew into the trees, listening to you giggle as the birds scattered away from their perches.

 At least, summer stayed like that until you both hit freshman year of high school, when you moved away from Kansas to a bigger city with more opportunities. No more 3-hour car rides down to the farm. It was the end of a lifelong era. Saying goodbye to everything you’d ever known, Kansas was a big difference compared to Metropolis. Everything there was frozen in time—at least in your mind. Clark would still be the same scrawny kid, with big blue eyes and nerdy. Someone who faded into the background. 

Life went on.

Clark thought about you a lot, but the letters between you started to fizzle as you both grew into different people. He was the nerdier type, not a lot of friends, but that was nothing new to you. You prospered in the city, finding solace in socializing, babysitting events, and trying new things around the city. Like the world was your oyster. In many ways it was. 

He still saw your aunt a lot; Ma and her had kept in touch, having dinner together once a week. Clark was still deciding his future, where he should go, studying at a nearby university as he helped do all the farm work at home. He’d ask about you sometimes, only to get vague, unfulfilling answers. 

In the comfort of your own room after long days of studying and working, you’d let your mind wander to him. Wonder about what he was doing. Had he picked up on journalism? Writing? Astronomy? He could do anything if he really set his mind to it.

After long semesters of studying, your parents surprised you with a trip to your aunts for the summer. Ditch the city life and hang out in the quiet for 3 months; allow your brain to relax. 

You stepped out of the car, stretching your legs after the 2-hour car ride from the airport to the farmhouse. You took in a deep breath as you stretched your arms above your head, the sweet smell of freshly cut grass and flowers, and then the unavoidable tinge of cow manure blowing in the wind. Your uncle grabbed your suitcase from the trunk, your thick tote bag slung over your shoulder as you walked up the creaky steps.

Everything was just as you suspected—frozen in time. The mailbox had a small lean to it, the old dog sleeping on the porch, dwindling to his last year or so. The porch paint was peeling, but the house was well painted. Your uncle had hurt his back, so you wondered who did it. “Looks good…” You comment, stepping in and slipping off your shoes. Your aunt gives small thanks as she wraps you in a tight hug. “Thank you, been getting some help on the farm. Polishing it. I miss you,” she said, pressing her face into your hair before releasing you. “Your room is the same. Go freshen up; we have dinner at the Kents tonight,” she said, arms crossed. 

You couldn’t help but perk up at the last name, the idea of Clark flashing your mind before you could stop it, and your aunt gave a knowing smile. “Yes, Clark is there. He’s still studying, helping Jonathan out since his back's starting to get like your uncles. We didn’t tell him you were coming.” The proud smirk on her face gave you all you needed to know. They had been planning this for weeks, keeping it just hush enough to dodge his superhearing. 

So you freshened up, excited to see your forever friend. You milled over the minor details, wondering if his hair was still dark and if his eyes were still bright. Then you wondered if he still looked through his telescope every night or if he spent his nights flying among the stars when he couldn’t sleep. The image you had of him was meek, still imagining the sweet and shy Clark Kent who needed a night light to sleep even though he had ten times the strength of an average man. 

You wore a pretty spring dress that went to your mid-thigh, one that showed off your smooth skin, showing old birthmarks you used to cover. Wherever they might be. You wore your hair nice and simple, making sure to do some light make-up before stepping down into the mudroom of the house. You held a casserole in a blue dish with a top lid, waiting for your aunt to be ready. 

The wait got too boring, so you went for the door. “I’m gonna start walking over!” you yelled, stepping out onto the familiar path that led up to the Kents' house. Your cowgirl boots crunched in the gravel beneath your feet as you watched the sun start to dip in the sky. It was your favorite walk, a short 5 minutes but beautiful. Unless you were in hot weather—then it was miserable. Tonight was nice, slowly cooling down.

You walked up the dirt path, hearing two voices discussing a car's engine, one you recognized as Pa Kent, and the other… well, you weren’t sure. It was deeper, soft and reassuring. Soothing. Pa Kent was under the car, and a tall man was standing, holding the car with one hand like it was nothing, his tight t-shirt doing nothing to conceal the strain of his bicep in the fabric. It made you dizzy when you noticed it. You could see the print of his abs through his shirt, his shoulders bulky, making him all the more a local beefy Kansan. He was tall, nearly casting a shadow. It wasn’t until he quickly turned his head to look at you that you realized who this boy—no, man—was.

You saw the thick, silky black head of hair, curled and wild on his head. The laughter bubbling from his chest at his father's rambling. Lethally blue eyes, ones that displayed every emotion inside them.

Clark Kent was standing in front of you with the piercing blue eyes, making your stomach turn into knots as you tried to keep your jaw off the floor and the casserole in your arms all at once. He wasn’t scrawny or loser-ish. He was handsome. Alluring. Hot. When had this happened? It was making your head spin, your heart stutter, and his super hearing picked up on every miscalculated beat. 

“Golly, long time no see!” he exclaimed, the excitement flooding his tone like it used to. Clark still had that sweet boy deep in there. The big puppy Kansas boy overflowed from his big heart that was being protected by his massive pecs—maybe that’s what they were for. To protect his big heart. “Hi…” You say shyly, watching his eyes run over you. Were you drooling?

He couldn’t imagine you looking this good; he knew you were pretty, but he was just taking guesses at what he remembered. Clark remembered your sparkling eyes and big smile, but now you were everything he had imagined and more. A dream in front of him. Pa made a grunt of irritation as Clark was slowly lowering the car, too distracted by you to remember what he was doing. “Son.” Clark did not answer, the car lowering another inch. “Clark!” Jonathan reminds. “Oh!” You gave a small giggle as Clark raised it again.

“Sorry, Pa. Can we do this after dinner?” His dad stood up slowly with a grunt and raised a weary eyebrow. “I won’t be able to see later.” Clark gave a quick reply, “I can see in the dark, Pa.” The older man shrugged, shaking his head and grinning at you. Jonathan pulled you into one of his familiar bear hugs before heading inside. Some people just seemed to be immune to time.

You heard the thud of the old truck hitting the ground again, and before you could blink, Clark quickly took the hot casserole dish away from you, talking away as he went inside. He told you all about what you’d missed. Or he tried. It had been four years after all. Clark wasn’t very shy anymore, or maybe he was just eager for your attention after being away from you for so long. This was going to be a long summer. That’s for sure.

Dinner was filled with familial chatter, old friends catching up. They told you embarrassing stories of Clark, watching his cheeks burn red. You watched as his forearms flexed as his knife glided through the baked potato on his plate. How his Ma told a corny joke, and he still threw his head back in laughter. How focused his eyes were, sweet with a pleading undertone when he asked for the salt, or the vegetables. You've got to tell your city stories, about all the chaos that contrasted the Kansas tranquility. 

The night ended with a blackberry pie and vanilla ice cream that everyone ate too much of. Clark was first to thank his mother for the food, his hands in his lap and grinning. His dimples were working overtime, and you felt your stomach tingle. Had he always had dimples? Surely they had just appeared out of nowhere…

—------------------------------

The summer was filled with much fun, and you and Clark’s prospering friendship. You guys spent hours together, walking your old stomping grounds like no time had passed at all. He still stole vegetables off your plate, called you nicknames, and tugged on your braids gently. Clark was gentlemanly too. Fixing your necklace for you, helped you rebraid your hair, unaware how it made your gut stir and flustered you. 

How could he be so attractive and sweet all at once? You just wanted to repay him in… inappropriate ways. Clark just kept flirting like it was nothing, and he was oblivious to how his southern drawl and kind smile could make anyone weak in the knees.

Dinners at the Kents’ led to bonfires that Clark conjured up with his… heat vision? He said he was working on the names for all of it; you giggled, watching him gently blow on the fire to get the flame crackling in the pit. “So, Clark. Besides school, what have you been up to?” you asked, watching him set logs into the pit, little pieces of saved newspaper in the bottom. He shrugged, looking up at you from his spot on the ground. “Helping Pa on the farm, exploring. I’ve been writing too! I flew up to Africa, kinda exploring their roots and connecting with their heritage,” he explained, totally nerding out. 

You watched as he talked with his hands, getting distracted from the fire that had now sputtered out. His lower lip jutted out in a pout, and you giggled, making a smile break loose on his face. He just couldn’t help it when it came to you. “Very admirable, Clark,” you said. Your praise made him straighten and smile. 

Clark noticed a change not long after that. Suddenly, he found himself fixing his hair before coming to your place. The other day, he had struggled for ten minutes alone to pick a shirt. This had never happened before! Sure, he had crushes, big ones even. But this one was different; he felt the need to impress you, be bold. Oblivious to how you were already drooling over how he looked.

Every time you smiled or laughed, he felt the air get kicked from his lungs. He felt his stomach twist in knots every time you wore a pretty dress. Clark had also remembered you with dirty knees and missing teeth, and to see you dancing by the fire to an old country song, or licking the batter of a spatula in the kitchen with his Ma, he felt warm. Different. 

He looked up from milking the cows, his eyes landing on you through the big window over the kitchen sink. Clark saw his mother, then you. The whole conversation buzzing in his ears. Martha saw you look out the window, and she had seen Clark look at you across the dinner table a thousand times now. “Funny, isn’t it?” Martha asked, turning to look at you lick the spatula again. The dough melting into your tongue. Your head tilted to the side and your nose scrunched in confusion—the motion reminded Clark of a bunny, and it made his heart warm upon seeing it. “Growing up, I mean.” You looked at Martha, then out the window at Clark, who quickly pretended to be milking the cows. You understood what she meant, giving her a nod and then a knowing smile. Martha returned it, kissing your cheek and heading to the porch. 

It wasn’t long before you and Clark were in tune with each other’s bodies again. It was like you knew when he entered the room, and he could pick out your heartbeat again. It was a little quicker than it used to be when you were kids. You looked at each other when laughing, and late nights were spent in your quilts as you told stories like you were kids. Some nights it was down by the pond, the moonlight bathing it. 

“Jump in with me, Clark,” you begged, eyes big and sweet. He hesitated, tilting his head. Gosh, he was so cute. “It’s cold, and we don’t have any clothes,” Clark replied, rubbing the back of his neck, his arm stretching and showing his muscle. “It’s not cold! You're immune to cold, aren’t you? Just get in!” You said, not giving him a chance to protest as you wiggled out of your jean shirts, jumping off the creaky dock in your oversized t-shirt and silly polka dot underwear. Before he could think any better, he was tugging his shirt off, letting his jeans fall to the ground as he jumped in, clad in only his boxers. The quick glimpse you got of his abs (and the hard-to-ignore imprint through the fabric) was enough to make the cold water worth it. 

That night you stumbled into your aunt's kitchen, giggling like school kids again. You popped open a bottle of wine; Clark just watched as you brought it to your lips, soaking all over the kitchen floor. He couldn’t bring his eyes off of you as you swayed, humming along to your own tune. The giggle was the sound of your soul, and maybe his too. 

All this time with you made him realize just how much he liked you. And now, with the wet t-shirt sticking to your skin, your hair damp over your face, and getting tipsier by the second, he pressed his lips to yours. He laughed against your mouth as you hummed into the kiss. Your body was electric, as you had been waiting for the moment. His overgrown stubble was brushing your slick skin. 

Maybe this is what dreams were made of. 

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a while…” You whispered into the kiss, pressing the wine to your lips again. You offered it to him, and he shook his head. His hands finally reached your hips, firm yet gentle palms keeping you in place. His back leaned on the counter, looking down at your smug smirk. He was enamoured by your drunk smile. The alcohol hadn’t hit your system yet, just drunk on the kiss alone. “Would you believe me if I said I had been too?” he asked, eyes full of adoration as he searched your eyes. A grin spread across your lips, shaking your head. “No, you’re so nice to everyone, and you always have that dopey look in your eyes. I thought I was just another girl…” You admit, taking a final gulp from the big bottle. 

Clark takes it from you, setting it on the counter behind him. He tugged you in, leaning in closer to your lips. His eyes flicked down to them, licking his own lips as he prepared for another kiss. “And the whole time I was just wondering when you got so good-looking… and how you could be so devastatingly hot and be so oblivious to it!” He closed his eyes, wishing his lips were on yours instead. “I was in turmoil too, scared to feel these things about my best friend. Couldn’t stand how pretty you were,” he admits. A small kiss to your lips, before diving in for another.

You let your hands roam his skin, the abs on his stomach that you had been dreaming about for weeks. You felt the undeniable outline of his excitement for you under his wet boxers. His hands were pulling up your wet shirt, tossing it somewhere into the kitchen. Your heartbeat was the only thing in his ear, other than your whiny noises of desperation. 

The familiar scent of your sweet arousal washed over his senses, everything in his mind clicking. For weeks he had been smelling it, mistaking the rich smell for your perfume. It had been your telltale sign of how turned on you were. Now he realized how you were wet, watching him do mundane tasks around the farm or his subtle attempts at flirting. “Oh, sweetheart,” he moans into the kiss, your lips leaving no mercy.

“Smell so good…” he adds, opening his eyes to take in your everyday bra and those polka-dot underwear. Had you known you were gonna get laid, maybe you’d picked something different. But now it didn’t matter. “Smell?” you ask, raising an eyebrow as you move your lips to his neck, the tough Kryptonian skin taking no damage as you sucked and kiss. “I can smell you… when you’re aroused,” Clark whispered. His hand went to your hair, tugging you away from his skin. 

Your face flushed, and you gave a guilty grin. “I wish I was more embarrassed than I am right now…” You mumble, unhooking your bra, letting him take in your breasts, how they sit on your chest without the confines of your bra. He was getting harder and harder by the second. “No need to be embarrassed. It’s sweet; thought it was your perfume.” His eyes devour you like you're something ethereal, a higher being. 

He picked you, pressing his hard-on against your throbbing cunt. It fluttered at the idea of taking his alien dick. You could feel the heft of it, and his thick, beefy thighs against yours. “I need you…” You begged, hands grasping at his sloppy curls. “In your aunt's kitchen?” he asked, apprehensive at first as he slowly lowered you to the ground. The tile was cold on the skin of your back, making you gasp. The alcohol was catching up to your system, making your stomach warm and bubbly. You nodded quickly, “Full circle…” 

That made him laugh, shaking his head as he hooked his fingers onto your panties, tugging them down and allowing the cold air to hit your pussy. His boxers were next to leave before he grabbed your hips, the hard floor the last thing on your mind as you took in his length. 10 inches with a thick base, precum leaked at the tip, and he throbbed from how hard he was. Everything about him was big as you had expected. In the mornings, you had tried not to peek as he bulged through his sweatpants in the mornings, trying to hide it with blankets or pillows.

Soon he was pushing into you, skin to skin as he took you on your aunt’s kitchen floor, not caring about the risks. Right now it was just you and him in the moment. You squeezed tight as he glided into you, the stretch making you cry out—you’ve never taken something so big. Even toys didn’t compare to this. Tears pricked your eyes as your wet folds accepted him greedily, your stomach bulging with his size. Small gasps and moans slipped from your lips, sounding like heaven.

When he bottomed out, he caged you with his arms, each hand on either side of your head. Clark paused. Your breathing mingled, and his chest heaved. “Please… Tell me how good I’m doing,” he whined. You clenched around him in surprise, but somehow more aroused at the thought. This big, broad-shouldered man needed to be praised for being the good boy he is. Just a puppy at heart. “You're doing so good, baby. Move your hips for me,” you insist, throwing your head back as he gave a slow thrust. You felt every good spot inside you being hit by his massive dick. 

A whine broke free from his lips, surprising you again. Clark started to rut into you like a dog in heat, each roll of his hips even greedier than the last as he took in your sweet praise like music to his ears. He can’t believe he’s finally living out his wet dreams with you. “O… Oh! Clark! Right there, please! Such a good boy, filling me up better than anybody!” Another broken whine broke from his lips as he continued to drag his cock in and out of you, occasionally dipping his head down to take your nipple into his mouth. 

He nudged the sweet spot inside you, repeatedly as slurred words of appreciation slide from your mouth. Your sweaty bodies move against each other, your hips starting to move with the rhythm of his as he tries to find your sweet spot. “Feel good?” he rasped, reaching a hand down to rub your sensitive clit, your pussy sensitive and puffy from how he was bullying it. You nodded, a quiet moan slipping from your lips as he buries himself in you before pulling almost all the way out, crashing back in again.

Your eyes roll back as he rubs circles into your bundle of nerves, feeling you clench around him. “That feels so good, Clark! Please, harder!” You insist, forgetting to keep your voice down. His hips begin to move faster, the slap of skin on skin filling the kitchen. It wasn’t long before you were going over the edge, your orgasm crashing over you, making your body shake as he continued to bully that spot, his lips catching your moans. His stomach burned with the familiar bubbling feeling, knowing his orgasm was approaching rapidly.

“Where do you want it?” Clark asked, trying not to spill inside you from how hard your clenching him, your fluids building a ring around the base of his cock. You bumble incoherent words before blurting, “Stomach!” 

Quickly, he pulled out, his cum shooting over your stomach, even your breasts, breathy moans escaping him. It just kept coming; you hadn’t ever seen someone cum so much. He was a mess above you, his hair messed up, his tip leaking with the aftermath, and sweat on his temple. Clark was the most beautiful man you had ever seen, so impossibly human and vulnerable. Even when he wasn’t human.

“Oh thank you, baby,” he whispered, your name following as he ducked down and gave you a kiss. Clark gathered your clothes, then you from the kitchen floor before starting the tub inside your small bathroom in your room. Where you laid against his chest as he ran a hot soapy rag over your body. The wine sat warm in your belly, and your legs were a perfect amount of shaky from the results of you and Clark’s love making. “Who knew all it took was a night swim?” 

You shook your head slowly, a small giggle bubbling from your lips. “It was more than that and you know it. Your irresistible,” you teased, closing your eyes as you leaned back. Clark shook his head, a blush creeping up his ears. The hot water steamed from your skin, and the bubbles were up to your chin. He spent the next 20 minutes drying you, rubbing lotion on your body, then tucking you into his chest as you packed his 6’4” and 240 pound frame on your full bed, your face buried in the crevices of his chest.

The next morning it was painfully obvious what you had done to both your families. You were both more touchy, the looks lingered, and your walk was a bit off-kilter despite your efforts to hide it. Martha and Jonathan of course gave him a firm talking to about the consequences and all that stuff, making him protest and squim in his seat.

It wasn’t long before he was packing up his stuf to move to Metropolis with you—beginning his Superman debut, his reporter job and his first big relationship with you.

[maiamore]

𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: The Daily Planet lands itself a rather interesting intern — inspired by House Bunny (2008) 𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆/𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐆𝐎𝐑𝐘: Explicit/F!Reader 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: plot, ditz! coded reader/hyper-fem!reader, dummy clark, intern!reader, slowburn, comedy, slight power imbalance, age gap, fluff, reader loves to collect strays, romcom!vibes 𝐖/𝐂: 2.7k

Clark never really understood the appeal of owning critters.

Not the sort that Ma & Pa kept on the Kent farm. That was different. Those served a purpose. An evergreen agricultural cycle that involved the caretaking of animals and his parents' livelihood.

Take Krypto, for example. Clark didn't understand why his cousin insisted on keeping him as a pet when she left the pup with him most of the time. And considering the sheer damage the pup inflicted in Fortress alone — he'd rather stick to animals that could be kept in a large, grazing field.

It was also why he found himself entirely unequipped to handle this stranger, crouched right outside the turnstiles of The Daily Planet.

"Hi sweet baby…"

The voice forced him to still mid-step. Forgetting his task at hand, of finding his missing intern. He whips his head down to the source of the saccharine sweet coo to you. A devastated-looking thing, knees tucked beneath your too-short skirt. Shimmery bright pink, pouty lips pursed in concern as you carefully nudged at the bird with what seemed to be a bunny-shaped Pez dispenser.

"Are you alright?"

You looked up at the stranger's voice, towering over you, with your eyes all glossy with hurt. "He's emotionally overwhelmed."

Clark's lips pressed taut, looking around for a beat before he finally speaks up, careful, "the…uh…pigeon?"

"Mhm," you nod to yourself, bottom lip jutted out as you use your folder to scoop it up. "Almost got run over by a stupid cyclist. Didn't even flinch!" Your manicured hand shoots out from where you were crouched, fingers wiggling, a silent command for Clark's help to pull you up. He takes it, unsure, watching you balance the animal.

"Do you know any bird doctors around? God. This poor thing." Clark pointedly looks toward the file and the possibly sleeping bird, covering what seemed to be the logo of The Daily Planet.

"Oh…you're — …" His knuckles gently nudge the critter as it protests with a weak chirp. "The new intern. From MU?"

You tilt your head up. The twisted expression plaguing your face lit right up with a warm, wide smile. Shiny glints of brightly coloured tooth jems sitting on your canines. "Yup! I couldn't get past this…door thingy."

Clark looks behind him, to the gates, nodding slowly, still very thrown from the apparent communications major who seemed more like an arts major. "Easy mistake, takes a while to get used to. Come." He quickly regains his composure, taking a step ahead into the turnstile.

You meet his gaze, hesitant, taking a wide step into the tiny space with him. He's instantly hit with a rather sweet, strawberry jam-esque perfume, "uh…" he stiffens when you tilt your head to his voice, "…you can step after —" the words die in his throat at your eager, wider eyes looking at him, all puzzled. "… never mind."

The distance doesn't seem to bother you, the entire way through the dizzying spin. Clark's palm steadies behind your back to guide you out. He lets go of you in a stiff, jerky motion. Noticing what seemed to be glitter on his palms. "I'm assuming Jenna emailed you the itinerary? It's okay if you didn't print it out, let's get you upstairs and…"

"Oh!" You chirp, holding a finger up to stop Clark. "I printed it. Hold this."

He blinks, steadying the file you thrust into his hands, the critter still asleep soundly on it. You hold the laminated, sparkly-sticker-decorated paper in front of your face, tilting it to the side with a beaming grin. "Aaand here's the printouts of my writing examples," you press the first folder in his free palm, to which he takes, "…plus the proposed draft article sample, "Clark's balancing both the animal and the growing stack of folders in both his hands, "…and my ID, for the access keycard. So that's the first three things crossed off the list?"

A huff leaves him all at once, lips quirked in your oddly impressive show of preparedness. "That's…yeah." He gestures toward the elevators with your writing samples as he walks. "You're prepared. We've had interns from Ivy League schools that aren't this…thorough."

You fall in step beside him, and that turns into a mini-sprint. "Whoa — your legs are really long!"

Clark slows wordlessly, cheeks tinted pink as he immediately slows his gait to one that matches yours.

"I just think it's a good work ethic to be prepared." You continue, not giving him a chance to respond to your out-loud observation. "Back in my sorority house, I kept stuff organised. Planning all the mixers and stuff, the themes can get so messy. But the cute campus IT guys helped turn my whole system into this actual system. Coded and everything. My sister's still use it." You pause, looking genuinely proud of yourself, "pretty impressive stuff."

Clark hums, letting you ramble as he steers you into the closed space. He jabs the button to the thirty-first floor with his elbow. "Sounds like you've got a good head for it. Though… is this what you want to do? It can get pretty chaotic on a publishing floor."

You tip your head thoughtfully, nails drumming your purse straps. "Mmm, yeah, actually. It's kind of perfect for me? Working in noise is kind of…my thing. I grew up with like. Fifteen siblings. Total circus. Even in my sorority."

"F-" he chokes, "fifteen?"

"Mhm! In the orphanage." You drop the line so casually that it takes him a moment to actually process it, "I think I need the noise to focus? Like my brain doesn't know what to do in the silence. Who knows."

Clark stares at you. In the span of five short minutes, he feels like he'd learned more about you than people he's worked alongside for years. "I…can relate. I was adopted, too, I suppose. Grew up on a farm, and I can only ever fall asleep with…" he coughs, embarrassed, "ambient noise of barn animals."

You blink, and then burst out into a light, airy laughter, nudging him with your elbow. "Oh my gosh! That's really adorable. I can only fall asleep with ASMR."

"I don't…follow."

"You know, the ASMR-influencers that do those faux-dentist office roleplays. And tons of other stuff."

"…sure."

You walk ahead of him, assured, the click of your heels louder on the non-carpeted floors of the main lobby. He watches you for a beat before snapping his gaze back to the bustling bullpen.

"Lois!" The taller, vest-clad woman stills at the flagging of your folder, "could you grab our — wandering…intern? Show her around the bathroom and the breakroom. I need to go over her paperwork." Lois follows his line of sight at the ball of sparkle, making her way down the room, beaming 'hi!'s echoing in the space as you greet everyone.

Wearily, Clark turns to the front desk, laying an embroidered handkerchief with his initials. "Jen," he begins, slowly, depositing the bird onto the cotton. "Any chance you could dig up a..copy paper box? And maybe a blanket?

Jenna peers over the thick frames of her glasses, to the bird first, and then up at Clark.

"…Sure?"

He drags his hand down his face, watching you through the glass partition. You're already laughing, like you'd known those people your entire life. Clark was painfully aware of the fact — that he was very much out of his element.

"Also…one more thing."

She looks over, emptying a box as instructed. "Hm?"

"What is…ay-ass-em-ar?"

—

You were a draft.

A rather energetic, strawberry-smelling draft that Perry adored the hell out of. Lois said you were a lot, but in a good way. And Jimmy, Jimmy dropped the comment that you were following him around like a duckling who'd imprinted on him. Honestly? Clark didn't hate that. It was…endearing.

The overall atmosphere of the bullpen had changed drastically.

Succulents were planted on every desk, with their own little handwritten name tags. Steve, Barry, Gerald — all assigned to their own cubicle, colour-coded in accordance with the personalities of their new owner. The breakroom now had a framed menu, crafted drinks you'd make for everyone with the coffee machine and a designated matcha-whisk station. Clark didn't think he'd like a 'sakura infused uji matcha latte with oat milk' until you made it for him, topped with bendy straws. There were snack baskets by the coffee stations that you'd restock with stuff you liked, and a newly added lost-and-found box by the elevator, because you insisted that nothing deserved not to have a home. Which people surprisingly filed in, organised by location and dates of discovery, before unclaimed items were given away.

A new addition made its way into the bullpen — a corkboard, listed with people's work anniversaries and birthdays marked with gold star stickers.

One morning, Clark stands before it. Head tilted, with his lips pursed in thought.

"Did you make this?"

You don't look up from your makeshift little cubicle, focused gaze fixed on your computer. "Mhm! I asked Jenna for the onboarding spreadsheet. And don't worry, no office supplies were harmed. And no privacy breached, I only looked at the birthdays and joined dates.

"That…isn't really part of..." He adds, sighing softly at the mountain of work piled next to your desk, it was clear you were adding to your own workload. He'd seen you every day, clocking out late to make sure your actual tasks were completed.

"Leia in archives has been here for twenty-one years, Clark. Twenty-one! Jimmy told me nobody put up a single streamer in the last couple of years. Cuz apparently 'work anniversaries' aren't celebrated." You look up, face twisted in displeasure, emphasising the term with bunny ears, "that's just…not right."

Clark nods, thoughtfully, looking back at the board. Where Leia's anniversary was circled in pink gel pen, accompanied by three hand-drawn balloons. "No," he agrees, meeting your gaze with a smile. "It isn't."

You mirror his smile with your own.

"I'll ask around the office. Crowd-fund a little lunch to celebrate?"

The offer hangs in the air for a second, and your eyes light up as you nod intently.

"Okay!"

—

In hindsight, Clark should've recognised the pigeon as a warning of what was coming.

His apartment had turned into something of a wildlife sanctuary.

It'd started with the darn bird — more specifically, the recovery set-up. You'd added a heat lamp next to the cardboard box that very first day at work. Appearing the next day with a little dish of an electrolyte mix that you researched about, then texted him at two in the morning with five exclamation points.

That selfless caretaking of yours was quickly stomped on, with the eventual discovery of Jenna and her avian allergy. You didn't blame her, though. Approaching Clark with the box and a sniffle to pair. The sorority house hadn't allowed animals, and you just didn't have the heart to let it back into the wild until you were sure it was okay.

So Clark offered up his apartment, because why wouldn't he?

You'd appeared at his apartment after Birdie's relocation. With a plant you brought for the pigeon. Something about the visual, therapeutic stimulation to aid its recovery. And then came a second plant, since the first one looked lonely. Naturally.

By the second month, his windowsills and patios were lined with citrus plants and varieties of pothos. All of them a result of your sisters' thinking they could nurture plants. The Kent Rehabilitation Centre was now brimming with dedicated shelves with various animal feeds and a rig that held grow-lights for said plants. His coffee table, now stacked with books on animal care-taking, next to his Metropolitan back issues. Gerald — the pigeon you named after your own desk succulent, had promptly recovered and 'flown the nest', the recovery space practically occupied a whole corner of his apartment. He left it that way out of practicality. It was too much of a hassle to move it.

…And maybe. Maybe he missed Gerald just a little. Hoping for an opening for whatever new wounded animal you felt the need to nurture. It was confusing to him, mentally, anyway.

You weren't his girlfriend. You were his intern. An intern who knew his address, who was undeniably kind-hearted and hard-working. He couldn't find it in himself to break the earnest gaze in your eyes, the same one that'd make his heart flutter.

So when you showed up, soaked to the bone with a smaller-than-life critter against your chest, lashes clumped in rain, with your voice so quiet and stripped of your confident lilt —

"He was in the…storm drain..I heard him, and he was…so little, Clark."

— he gently lifts the kit out of your hands, opening the door wider for you with a resigned smile.

"Okay. C'mon."

—

Your damp hair clung to your shoulders as you carefully crossed over the living room. A soft, faded Kansas A&M red jersey sat on your figure.

"Hi," you coo, softly as you crouched down. Making yourself as small as you could to not crowd him. "Hi, little guy."

The kit's nose twitches as soon as Clark's figure joins you in a kneel. "He's warming up quickly."

"Yeah?" You breathe out in relief.

"He'll be okay," Clark assures, sitting back onto the floor. You follow suit, with your knees tucked against your chest. Watching the kit's sides rise and fall as he rests.

"You always know what to do."

Clark smiles, all shy. "Not always. It's just easier with good help."

"It's different. Really. The general air around you. Animals have a feel of this sort of thing." Your chin comes to rest on your knees, turning to him, shifting closer in a subconscious move to seek more heat from him. "You could really find someone if you wanted to."

He glances over to you, "where did that come from?"

"I'm just saying," you gesture vaguely, "you're kind, and you've got this whole thing going on. With you. And you don't look to at…" your hand circles your chest, and then you laugh to yourself, unnerved by his silence.

"I think…someone would be really lucky to have all of this. To have you."

You meet his gaze. In the same way you always had, in a curious and defenceless manner. And this time, Clark hadn't looked away. He was acutely aware of the fact that you were close enough that he could see the streaks of mascara smudged from your shower. Not a damn thought in your eyes but pure, unadulterated trust in him.

He leans in. And you close the distance.

The kiss felt fleeting at first. His warm palm comes up to the side of your face, lips latching over yours tenderly. It was silent, with nothing but a sweet 'pop' from him pulling back to tilt his head, only to kiss You whimper softly into him, carefully resting your palm onto his shoulder, letting out a low, satisfied hum.

You nudge at his shoulders, softly, a dazed look in your eyes, flickering down to his mouth and back to his eyes.

Clark's clarity settles in him right then. Open and intent, it forces him to withdraw entirely.

Confusion settles in your expression, because you thought you shared a moment, and he was looking at you like you crossed a line. "…Clark?"

"I'm sorry," he says, too rushed, running a palm down his face. "I shouldn't have."

"Did I…do something wrong?"

"No," he cuts in, "it's not you. That…was great."

It was an understatement, at best.

"Just…it's getting late. And you need to get some sleep."

"I mean…I can head back whenever I want…" You try, biting the insides of your cheeks.

He stands up, the gesture absolute. "I'll call you a cab."

You look up at him as he retreats to grab his phone. Slowly, your fingers graze your lips. The lingering warmth teases a curl at the corner of your lips.

PART TWO

[onlyasteelmancanbealover]

undeniable chemistry

clark kent x fem!chubby!reader

original ask <3 | ao3

summary: your chemistry partner is a dick, and you don’t know why!

word count: 4.7k

contains: angst & humor, eventual fluff. collegeAU! one-sided enemies to lovers, footballplayer!clark, englishmajor!reader. reader is a D1 hater, clark is clearly obsessed. teasing, snark/sass, miscommunication, trapped in the loft, anger, fighting. shut up kissing. science jokes. *no use of y/n

a/n: oh delicious. i took ur request and ran anon, i hope you like the tweaks i made.. this was so fun for me & felt like a break from my last few !!!!

—————————— ˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊——————————

You didn’t like Clark Kent, which was something most would wager you should be burnt at the stake for, but you had a good reason: he was a jerk. Simple as that. 

Clark Kent, MetU’s golden boy, was a complete and utter asshole. Being the quarterback for the Bulldogs made him a god around campus; his defense was the best in the state, he was in line for all sorts of professional tracks, and whenever he showed up to any party, pep rally, or game, it seemed like the entire school swayed on its feet. People revered him for scoring goals and having the cool head to open a door for a girl now and again. But these noble acts, these shows of modesty, they meant nothing to you. You only knew him as the pompous ass he was in the morning. 

You knew for a fact you’d never done anything to make him act in such a way towards you. In fact, when you first met him as a transferring junior in a new city with no friends and no life, you had gone out of your way to be nice. Something like a last ditch effort to make the most of a scary situation. A poor mistake on your end.

You were fulfilling the one and only credit which didn’t transfer over from your county college back home: general chemistry. It was already annoying enough that you had to repeat a course, given you were an English major with no interest in science whatsoever, but there was no waving it, and by the time you transferred into MetU all the good slots were gone. You had to take it at eight in the morning with all the other jocks who scheduled out their time for afternoon practices. Every Thursday, you were forced to sit in a room that smelled of body odor and hope to God the ammonia didn’t explode one of the test tubes. 

Something good had to come of it, right? You had to think so. And for a split second, you thought it could have been true when you sat beside him. When you stepped in on the first day, the only chair around was beside the beast of a man. He had that dark hair, deep enough to be black but without the menacing edge, that seemed to flirt with his eyebrows; piercing eyes that changed between blue and green by the day; the prominent canines of a golden retriever. What wasn’t there to admire? His Bulldogs hoodie squeezed his shoulders. The pencil in his hand looked dwarfed in comparison. All in all, a proper specimen. But the lesson lied in how he stared at you. He stared just how every other boy had all your life– with confusion, which melted into discomfort, and then into a slow reproach. He was no golden boy, he was just cute. You’ll never forget it– all you said was, “It’s nice to meet you. I hope we can be friends,” to which you received the most lifeless stare in return and a gruff little, “Sure.”

Every conversation after that was kept to a minimum. You weren’t an idiot. 

The year passed in a flurry of projects that kept you in a perpetual state of nails-on-chalkboard aggravation. Clark was needlessly up your ass, commenting on every little equation you screwed up and fighting with you about quantities and solutions in every lab. It seemed every other word coming out of his mouth was a snarky one. 

“Don’t you think you should use the calculator?”

“You can’t mix those, remember?”

“No, genius, that’s the other side of the equilibrium.”

“You know, for someone as smart as you, it would be great if you listened more.”

If you had a penny for every time Clark’s voice curled over your shoulder to choke you out with his attitude, you could personally fund an expedition to Mars and send him up alone. He’d do great up there with the aliens. He’d piss them off and start a galactic war.

What was worse was that he was never wrong. When it came to the retention of the material, Clark was light years better at chemistry. He had the periodic table memorized, for one thing, and he could calculate isotopes in his head. He knew the nature of it, the math, the processes. Everything. When he caught you making an incorrect calculation or a misinformed hypothesis, he was quick to show off, but your grade had yielded the results. You were going to pass the entire semester with a straight 95, all because of Clark. The fucking bastard.

Well, as long as you survived the final project.  

Professor John Jones, who got along so well with Clark it made everyone want to stick a finger down their throat, assigned the class a final project that was meant to be ‘freeform’ and ‘fun’ – as if there was anything fun about metals and acids. Perhaps how they could burn skin off, but little more. Everyone had to perform an analysis of a mineral found in their hometown and construct not only a unique study of its properties, but come up with an efficient way to use it for energy-saving processes. Because rocks can save the ozone layer, right? God, maybe it worked for a bunch of scientists, but you just didn’t have the heart for it. 

But Clark planned to throw himself (and you) in headfirst. He insisted he had the best study in the class waiting back home on his family farm. He touted it while the class waited for the professor to show up at his usual fashionably late time of 8:15.

“What did you call it?”

“Kryptonite,” he deadpanned, chewing on the string of his hoodie. “They started calling it that back home because it glows a greenish color in the light. Y’know, like Krypton does when it’s electrified in a tube.”  

You stared into Clark’s eyes, feeling the familiar burn of frustration beneath your skin. Wracking your brain for a second, you thought, Krypton, Krypton, shit, what is that again…?

Clark’s eyes never left your face. He minded how you seemed to search for the answer, using that pretty brain of yours to try and muster the care for something you clearly despised. He smirked and said, “Krypton? Number 36?”

You blinked and pursed your lips. Shit. Element. Right. “Whatever. So what exactly are you suggesting we do?”

“Krypton’s been used for all kinds of stuff. They make energy-efficient lighting for cameras and signs, lightbulbs, they use it for medicine, they insulate windows and houses with it,” he rambled, spinning on his lab stool. “We can study the properties and see if it works even better than the original element.”

“Is it even linked to Krypton’s properties?"

“No idea,” Clark grinned, wiggling his eyebrows. “That’s what the experiment is for.”

“That could be incredibly dangerous. What if it’s poisonous?"

“It’s a rock, genius,” Clark scoffed, “you’re telling me you’re afraid of a rock?”

“I don’t like the idea of a special rock that can only be found in your bumblefuck hometown, Clark, yeah.”

Clark clapped a hand over his heart in false pain. “You wound me.”

You grumbled softly and shut your laptop as Jones walked to the front of the room. 

“You’re coming to the farm this weekend so we can get this done,” Clark leaned in close to whisper. You could smell minty toothpaste as his breath brushed your ear. “Unless you’ve got a better plan.”

You scrunched your shoulders and shoved him away, practically growling as he let out a small snicker. The ghost of him still lingered, clean and warm in the space beside you. He did that a lot. Got close to tease, to mock, to prove you wrong. You hated it as much as you hated him. Everything he did snuck under your skin, proving that you were never quite going to get a handle on your anger with him around. All you had to do was pass this class, and then you would never have to see him again. All you would know of Clark would be his face plastered on the side of the stadium in a blue jersey, and his face plastered in the dining hall, and his face plastered on the campus newspaper… fuck, it might just be time to transfer again. 

 ˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊

Smallville was not just bumblefuck. It was podunk, redneck, Dorothy-and-Auntie Anne levels of nowhere. The Kent Farm sat on acres of golden land that sprawled in every direction, all fenced in by handmade posts and full of grazing cows and fluttering hay. It was beautiful, quaint, and absolutely fucking desolate. The thought of spending your entire weekend here with the guy you could stand the least sounded like perhaps you had already died, and were being condemned to a lifetime of torture inside the male psyche. This was what men liked, right? Trapping a girl in their sad, little nowhere? 

Clark’s truck never ceased smelling like Old Spice and stale coffee for the entire trip. The quarterback showed up at your dorm at five in the morning on Friday, banging hard enough on the door to wake your roomie Lois and get a pillow chucked at his face while you hurriedly dressed. “Oh, please don’t change on my account,” he had said, staring you down with that same smirk. You contemplated slashing his tires.

“Nice, isn’t it?” He sighed, rolling up the long, winding driveway. A yellow house poked through the sparse trees, spotted with pink flowers hanging on the awning and white-curtained windows.

“You’re really going to make me stay here until Sunday?”

“Nobody is making you do anything, smartypants,” Clark flashed his canines, “you just didn’t have a better plan.”

You huffed and clambered out of the truck, sneakers sinking into the muck of a freshly rained-on farm. Clark giggled at the squish of your shoes and watched you struggle to haul your duffel bag to the house, rolling his eyes at your stubbornness. At least it was cool outside, you reasoned. If the heat got any worse than this, you might kill him, and that would not even be your fault. The heat gets to everyone sooner or later. 

“My parents are home,” he said as he reached the porch steps. “Be nice.”

You grimaced as the porch found its way beneath your feet, and you let your luggage hit the wood with a thunk. “Can’t we just dig up some of your stupid rocks and get out of here?”

“You’re gonna want some pie first,” Clark grinned, swinging open the front door.

Here you were, being forcibly subjected into the world that made such a monstrously rude young man. Surely his parents were the problem…

 ˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊

By Saturday night, you had come to the conclusion that you were the one making Clark such a fucking nightmare. 

Jonathan and Martha Kent were two of the kindest people you had ever met in your life. His father was a mild-mannered and sensible older man, well-aged, outspoken, funny; Martha was the picture of beauty and grace, a talented cook and bookkeeper, and an even better conversationalist. And Clark– well, wasn’t he just sweet? Sweet with his mother and father, washing the dishes, begrudgingly passing you old photo albums, offering you his childhood bedroom and taking the couch. He made every effort to be accommodating when his parents were around. But the second he took you out into the fields to dig for these ridiculous green rocks, he went right back to being the guy you revolted.

“Have you ever held a spade before?”

“No, genius, that’s just a regular rock.”

“I wouldn’t work too hard if I were you. Your head can’t handle all that thinking.”

It truly was a matter of one more joke and you would throttle him. You dreamed of it– lunging across the dining table or the makeshift lab in his barn loft, clasping your nails around his long, tan throat, and squeezing until that minty breath made its last pass through those mauve lips. It would be so rewarding. Especially after having to watch the guy dig up dirt for hours on end, sweating in the sun, soiling a Bulldogs t-shirt. You had to sit there and pant in the heat, tugging at your clothes and swatting back your hair, aware of your every curve and roll and move; while the corded muscle in his arms moved easily while digging, his thick hair slicked behind his ears, his big hands pawing at green rocks like they were calling to him, or avoiding you. It was just wrong. A grievance the universe must have had with you was being repaid somehow, some way. 

Clark had done the original labs that night in the barn– studying the rock, breaking it apart with a pick and running all kinds of tests on its hardness, makeup, and reactions to certain catalysts. You perched on the couch and took notes on his findings, eager to let him do the hard part he was so insistent on performing. For a while, there was no speaking. Only the occasional comment from the quarterback about how the Kryptonite reacted to fire, which you scribbled down. 

It was when the storm started that Clark opened his mouth again.

The shift was a shock. The night had been so cool and clear, with a slow breeze wafting past the barn window; but it seemed in a split second, the indigo sky broke open and began pouring sheets of rain. You yelped as Clark cursed and rushed to lock the windows. Rain flew inside the barn sideways along with huge gusts of wind, soaking your notes and scattering shavings of the rock meant for his study. Water speckled your clothes and hair. You glanced around and saw a small fire catch across the room by his precious rocks, and you threw yourself at it. By the time he latched the window, rainwater soaked the wooden floors and your project was smudged to shit. 

“What the hell?” He whined, snatching your notes up and blowing on them. “Look at this!”

“Don’t what the hell me! I didn’t make it rain!”

“You couldn’t have saved the notes at least?”

“Well, I apologize for going after your fucking work station! That wind blew the flame from your bunsen onto the wall!”

Clark’s eyes darted across the loft to his desk full of minerals, where a black stain marked the wall. You were putting out a fire, he could tell that much. As you stood before him, chest heaving and shirt soaked, his heart hammered in his chest. Clark had imagined this moment many ways, but in none of them did you look this upset. He set down your notepad and ran a palm over his face, huffing in exasperation. 

A low rage coiled in your gut as he slumped onto the couch, seemingly resigning from work for the rest of the night. Who gave him the right to be so mad? First of all, what kind of idiot puts a bunsen burner in a wood-and-straw barn? What asshole blames their partner who's never been in their house nor touched their weird, special rocks? A Clark-sized one, that was who. You were sick of it– the hypocrisy, the snark, the treatment. All you ever did was come to class. He was the one who took it upon himself to get you going.

The quarterback glanced up as your frame stomped closer, eventually standing with arms crossed over him and frowning on a level par with Eeyore. Not every girl could look so beautiful when she was losing her temper, but you could. Your hair was sticky with rainwater at the ends, your sweater was dribbling onto the light wash of your jeans, and mascara was clumping under your eyes, but none of it mattered. You were close, and you smelled like his soap. You were in the place he grew up. Very few things could make him happier.

“Do I really want to do this?” 

“...Do what?”

“Jesus. Yeah, I do,” you snapped. “What’s your problem, Clark?” 

Clark’s gut clenched. “What?”

“I know you hate me, but this?” You scoffed, turning around to look at the barn and seemingly looking past the walls out over the farm. The storm drowned the fields, surely, and for a moment you imagined standing out there and being washed clean of all the confusing feelings in your chest. “Making me come here, making me meet your parents and dig for rocks like a fucking five year old, when I know you hate me? What’s the point? What are you getting out of this, huh? I’m not going to thank you for figuring out a final project, and I certainly won’t be spoken to like an idiot!”

Clark froze as you spouted your anger over him, hands gesticulating in his face and making his body thrum. Hate?

“I don’t hate you.”

“You clearly fucking do! All you do is treat me like shit! You purposefully make me feel stupid, you clearly derive pleasure from correcting me when I’m just trying to fucking pass–”

A slow heat began to burn beneath his cheeks as he sat there and allowed himself to be berated. Your mouth turned down as you shouted, punctuating your skin with little dimples. The flame in your eyes burned bright, that same glint he caught when he first met you. He loved that spark. He missed it when you were gone. He only saw you once a week, and so he had to fit as many of them in as he could. He poked and prodded the bear to see her bite so that he might wear the mark for days. 

“And all I want is to finish this, I just want to go back to school and turn it in and be done, I want to move on! You make everything so– so impossible, don’t you see that? What did I ever do to make you be so fucking rude?”

Clark’s lips parted as he tried to find the words, but nothing was forming. He studied how you turned your back and paced the barn, tugging at the ends of your hair and grumbling. 

“I don’t hate you,” he said again. “Far from it.”

“Yeah, right,” you rolled your eyes and sat at his desk. “I’m sure you treat every girl this way.”

The storm raged, spray battering the siding of the barn. The whistle mimicked a tornado, but he knew there was no chance of that. It was only a high tone, not the rumble of a train. There was something he hated– the rain. The rain did nothing for him. It was good for the grass and the animals, but it made sludge of the fields he ran drills on and it trapped him inside the house. The rain didn’t talk back, didn’t shoot dirty looks, and didn’t give him a reason to work twice as hard. The rain didn’t need to pass chemistry, a class she shouldn’t have to even take over again, a class she hates. He hated the rain. But you?

Clark rose and started towards you, pausing when you pressed yourself into the desk chair on the other side of the loft. “I mean it.”

You swallowed thickly. “Yeah? Well, you sure don’t act like it.”

“You’re fun to tease,” he offered. 

“It’s not fun for me! I hate it! You think I want to show up at the asscrack of dawn just to deal with you breathing down my neck, watching for my next mistake, ready to pounce and make fun of me for it? Maybe you’re some kind of science freak, that’s great, but I’m not, and you, Clark Kent, do nothing but cause me undue stress!”

His heart took a tiny bullet then, or at least something like it. The hairs on your arms were raised, your pupils dilated, your breath short. You were mad. Humiliated, even. You were looking up at him like you didn’t trust him. And really, what reason had he given you to do so? You were right about everything. You were so bright, so quick to hit back, and he adored that about you. He loved the way your nose scrunched when you fell prey to a confusing equation, and how you wrote hard enough to tear paper when you were angry. But very quickly and all at once, he started to see just what his feelings had blinded him to. When he thought he was giving you the answers, you thought he was treating you like you were stupid; when he poked fun at you for not caring, you felt he was mocking your attempts. Clark would have gone so far as to call his behavior flirtatious, but the reality was that he had been a complete and utter asshole, and now he was paying for it. 

“I didn’t mean to make you feel like this,” Clark said after a few moments passed. “I really didn’t.”

“What did you mean, then, Clark? Please enlighten me!” 

Your jaw was set hard, and he wanted so badly to reach out and smooth a thumb over the bone. He wanted to cup your squishy cheek. He wanted to kiss you and give you the answers to the final test. He wanted to get you an A on this project.

He sighed, “I was trying to flirt with you.”

The sound of about nine hundred alarms began to ring inside your ears. Clark Kent was walking closer until his knees brushed yours where you sat, his hands flexing at his sides, his big, stupid head full of remorse. Flashes of every time he angered you began to wash over you, muddling the emotions into murky water, making everything incredibly unclear and twice as frustrating. You leaned back a bit when he squatted before you, trying to catch your eyeline. 

“I hurt your feelings,” he continued, “but I didn’t mean to. I thought it was like… like a game, or something. Like you wanted to fight.”

A lump settled in your throat as his eyes– blue today– bore into yours. The response scraped past your throat. “That’s not how you flirt with a girl, you asshole.”

“How, then?”

“You– you fucking– you compliment her, you help her with things, you– fuck you, I don’t have to tell you this!”

Clark smiled a little, his guilty face glowing. “But I was doing that. All I do is call you smart–”

“Calling me genius and smartypants is an asshole move and you know it!”

“But they’re true! I say them because it’s true,” he barreled past your interruption, “and I did give you things. I gave you answers. Help. Taught you the material.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that! I could’ve done it on my own!”

Clark huffed and rubbed at his eyes, letting a hand fall to your knee. You flinched but didn’t yank away. “I didn’t want you to. I liked doing it. God… I really got this all wrong, didn’t I?”

Everything felt discolored. With his palm on your leg, the world was incredibly hot. Your lab partner had been… helping you, complimenting you… underneath layers of sarcasm that only drove you further away. How were you supposed to detect that? No genius could. When you met him, what did that first Sure mean? Did he want to be friends? Had you misread him then? Was it you, too? Were you the asshole? No, you promised yourself, because men are always responsible for their actions, they should be smarter and better and braver… even though it was getting more difficult to think straight as he gazed up at you with those eyes. 

Clark’s face flushed as his thumb dimpled your thigh. “Bringing you here was supposed to help. I wanted to see if you’d ease up when we weren’t in class. You’re hard to track down on campus, y’know, and I thought maybe if we spent a little time…”

You blinked and muttered, “You’re an ass.”

Clark’s eyes lifted. “Huh?”

“You’re an ass,” you repeated, leaning forward. His head tipped back to follow your lording, baring his neck to you. “When you like a girl, you tell her. We’re not five. You can’t pull my pigtails and expect me to assume that’s flirting. I just think it’s mean.”

“I see that now,” Clark gulped. 

“And to think, I thought you seemed nice before you ever opened your mouth. Such a genius at science, but such a fucking idiot in every other way.”

Clark bit back a laugh as he watched the flame licking in your eyes. It was… it couldn’t be. Were you softening? 

“I’m so sorry,” Clark urged, leaning up a bit. You drew him in like a magnet. You could keep screaming in his face for all he cared– he just liked it when you looked at him. 

“You’re going to have to be more than sorry,” you breathed, lashes fluttering. He looked the same as when you met him. He hadn’t changed. He was still dark and beautiful, tall, strong, the image of perfection. He also still looked smug as a motherfucker, and whatever part of you got so angry clearly did so over how much you liked it. “I want an A.”

“You’re gonna get one,” he promised, letting both hands run up your thighs now. 

You chewed the inside of your cheek, and one curious hand betrayed your restraint as it reached up to touch his skin. His cheeks were searing, and for the first time, you felt in control of the situation. With Clark on his knees, you could say anything you wanted, and it wouldn’t be a tease about your skills or your struggles. It would just be allowed.

“I want a lot from you,” you began, pressing a finger to his pout. “I want more apologies. I want walks to and from class. I want to come back in the summer and see your mother. I want you to show me you can learn how to treat me nice, because that was the girl you would have gotten in the beginning if you weren’t so stupid.”

Clark had no objections. “Okay.”

“And I want one more thing.”

His knees pushed up a bit, closing the space between his face and yours. “What’s that?”

“My name comes first on the project,” you smirked.

Clark erupted in soft laughter, and before you could react, two strong palms hooked behind your back and slid you to the edge of the chair. His lips found yours with a surging intensity, locking and never letting go; the eucalyptic taste of his tongue slid against yours as you craned over him, cradling his jaw and feeling the slow worship that got lost in translation pouring into every grunt and hum. Of all the things he was great at, kissing was another. Man, he was easy to hate. Well– envy. Easy for you to envy. That was what it was, wasn’t it? Envy. Covetousness. Desire.

“You really have to work on your communication skills,” you panted, tugging at his hair in the way you’d always hoped to– be it like this, or in a fight.

“And you really need to work on your anger,” Clark beamed, chasing after your mouth. 

“That’s not my–”

“I’m trying to kiss you here, genius.”

“I hate it when you call me that,” you flushed, nearly falling out of the chair as you knocked his back onto the loft floor. 

“Just shut up and come here.”

As his hands slid under your shirt, the flutter in your gut was clear as day. You were a smart girl, there was no denying it, but you did well with words– things that were interpreted rather than solved. In matters of the heart, your emotions were as clear to you as pages in a book. But Clark did not work that way. His biology was scientific. His methods, his needs, were all components collected to achieve the desired result. 

It was only now, as the rain began to lighten on the roof, that you finally learned your first lesson from him. This was an equation you could solve: The properties of this kiss, plus the factors of you and Clark, multiplied by months of miscommunication and divided over one night in bumblefuck Kansas, equaled undeniable chemistry. Considering your margin for human error, that was the quickest problem you had ever correctly solved. And it felt good.

Maybe, you thought (with his mouth against your neck), science wasn’t so bad after all. 

[manny-jacinto]

SPIDER-MAN: BRAND NEW DAY (2026) dir. Daniel Cretton

[mimuju]

olderbf!nanami headcannons ! (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

olderbf!nanami who never rushes you, no matter how impatient you get. you’re standing in front of your closet, frustrated, pulling out dresses and tossing them onto the bed.

"i have nothing to wear," you groan. he’s sitting in the armchair by the window, his tie already loosened, watching you with that calm, steady gaze.

"we have forty-five minutes," he says, his voice low and even. "take your time."

you huff, turning to face him. "you’re always so patient. it’s annoying."

he smiles, small and fond. "i’ve waited forty years to find you. i can wait forty-five minutes for you to pick a dress."

olderbf!nanami who always makes sure you eat before you leave the house. you’re running late, your heels clicking on the kitchen floor as you grab your purse.

"we’re going to be late," you say, already halfway to the door.

he steps in front of you, a plate in his hand—toast with avocado, a soft-boiled egg, sliced fruit arranged neatly. "eat first."

you stare at him. "nanami, we don’t have time—"

"we have time," he interrupts gently, setting the plate on the counter. "you’re not leaving this house on an empty stomach. sit."

you sit. you always do. because when he looks at you like that—like taking care of you is the most important thing in the world—you can’t say no.

olderbf!nanami who never raises his voice, even when you’re being difficult. you’re arguing about something stupid—where to go for dinner, maybe, or whether you should cancel plans to stay in—and your voice is getting louder, your hands gesturing wildly.

he just stands there, hands in his pockets, watching you. "you’re not even listening!" you snap.

"i am," he says quietly. "i’m listening to every word. and when you’re done, we’ll talk about it calmly. like adults."

you deflate, your anger fizzling out. "you’re too kind to me," you mutter.

he steps forward, his hands finding your waist. "you’re worth the kindness."

olderbf!nanami who takes his time undressing you, like every layer is a gift he’s unwrapping. you’re in his bedroom, the lights dimmed, and you’re already reaching for his belt, impatient, wanting him now.

"slow down," he murmurs, catching your hands. "we have all night."

you pout. "i don’t want to wait."

he leans down, his lips brushing your ear. "i know, baby. i know. but i’m going to make you wait. because the longer i take, the better it’ll feel when i finally touch you." he undresses you slowly, his fingers working each button, each zipper, until you’re standing in front of him in nothing but your underwear. he steps back, his eyes raking over you. "beautiful," he says. "now lay down."

olderbf!nanami who eats you out like it’s a meditation, like he could spend hours between your thighs and never get bored. you’re on your back, your legs over his shoulders, and he’s taking his time, his tongue moving in slow, deliberate strokes.

"n-nanami—please—" you gasp, your hands fisting the sheets. he looks up at you, his mouth glistening.

"patience," he says, his voice calm even as he slides two fingers inside you. "i’m going to make you cum. but i’m going to do it my way." he curls his fingers, finding that spot that makes your vision blur, his tongue circling your clit with agonizing precision.

you’re moaning, your hips rolling, but he holds you down with one hand on your stomach. "stay still," he orders gently. "let me take care of you."

olderbf!nanami who fucks you slow and deep, his hips rolling in a rhythm that has you seeing stars. you’re on your stomach, your face pressed into the pillow, and he’s behind you, his chest pressed to your back, his cock buried so deep you can barely breathe.

"nanami—h-harder!!—" you beg, trying to push back against him. he stills, his hand sliding up your spine to grip the back of your neck.

"no," he says, his voice firm but kind. "you take what i give you." he starts moving again, each thrust deliberate, each roll of his hips dragging against your walls in a way that makes you sob. "you feel that?" he murmurs against your ear. "that’s me. all of me. and you’re going to take every inch, just like this. until you can’t think about anything but how full you are."

olderbf!nanami who makes you ask for what you want, his voice low and commanding. you’re straddling him, his cock inside you, but he’s not moving.

he’s just watching you, his hands on your hips, his thumbs stroking your skin.

"p-please, i.... i can't—" you whimper, trying to roll your hips. he holds you still.

"use your words," he says. "tell me what you want."

"i-i want you to move," you gasp. "i want you to fuck me."

he smiles, small and satisfied. "good girl. now ask nicely."

you bite your lip, your face burning.

"please fuck me, nanami. please."

he rewards you with a slow thrust upward, his cock hitting that spot inside you that makes you moan. "that’s it," he praises. "that's my girl."

olderbf!nanami who holds you after, his arms wrapped around you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. you’re lying on his chest, your body still trembling, your mind fuzzy with pleasure.

he’s stroking your hair, his lips pressed to the top of your head. "you did so well," he murmurs. "so beautiful. so perfect." you nuzzle closer, your eyes already drifting shut.

"you’re too good to me," you whisper. he kisses your forehead.

"no such thing. you deserve everything. and i’m going to give it to you for as long as you’ll let me."

olderbf!nanami who wakes you up in the morning with his mouth between your legs, because he’s not done taking care of you yet. you’re half-asleep, your body warm and heavy, when you feel his hands on your thighs, spreading you open.

"nanami—" you start, but then his tongue is on you, and you’re gasping, your hands flying to his hair. he looks up at you, his eyes dark.

"good morning," he says, his voice rough with sleep. "lay back. let me love you." and you do. because when nanami wants to be patient, you let him. every single time.

tags :

babygirl : @sadisticslut666

perm - @whorishminds @besidesjustmyamour @throatgoatgeto @go-go-gadget-autism @thecrazyfangirlthings@grignardsreagent @strawberryshortcakkitty @naammiii @liasacountgothacked @annicishana @my-starlights @error-racoon-404 @afreakforyautja @cupidstrace @iam-souless@sindulgent666 @chewiebee @tojisballhair @ex1acy @palanggaaa@yourlocalcatscammer @ehcilhc @gravecyte @restingoasis @satorupi@laburantesdoll @sxpernova @thethyri @lostgeto @lilytrn @mikaari0 @chososballhair @nanamissilkytie @iwasabs @tojis-juicymantitys @laitifly @farylfordaryl @bl1ndv3lvet @booboobear-12 @6arcxm @sleeplessdancer @chloeee20 @deartoru @neptunezxx @ash273819 @sketchbonked @vanillakirstein @valberryboos @itimisu @livviaaaaa@kebablover @babyluvlol @audreytoru 

[residentsuperhero]

no fool for discretion

synopsis: Sometimes, dating Adrian Chase means sneaking through basement windows because he really wants you to see his secret basement and really doesn't want you to meet his mom.

gif by @/chaseadrian

pairing: adrian chase x reader tags: 18+!, smut, established relationship, (protected) sex, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, humor, fluff, quiet sex, hand gagging, mild sensory deprivation, not fully sub or fully dom adrian but a secret third thing, overstimulation, biting word count: 5.8k notes: brought to you by this request! title from the song "big dumb sex" by soundgarden which I firmly believe Adrian would like because it reminds him of all the glam metal songs about sex that Peacemaker likes but it has none of the subtext.

“Honestly, I’m kind of looking forward to meeting your mom!”

Adrian slammed on the brakes so hard you had to brace your hand against the dashboard, your seatbelt cutting tight across your skin. His eyes were wide, a grimace of pure panic on his lips.

“You can’t meet my mom!”

You blinked back at him. “Sorry?”

“There’s no fucking way you’re meeting my mom,” he said again, his tone firmer this time, but not any more elucidating than the last outburst. 

“I don’t understand. Aren’t we going to your house?” you asked.

“Yes.”

“A house you live in with your mother?”

“Also yes.”

“Is she home?”

“Probably!”

“But I can’t meet her?”

“Fuck no!”

You stared back at your boyfriend who looked like he might throw up at any second. His fingers drummed against the steering wheel. A blaring horn behind you made you nearly jump out of your skin, and when you looked in the rearview there was a line of cars held up behind you. Right. Because Adrian had stopped in the middle of a busy road. Adrian, however, suddenly no longer seemed to be in a rush to get home.

You put your hand on his forearm. “Ade, you gotta drive.”

“Okay,” he managed, voice a ragged whisper. He pried his foot off the gas and then proceeded to drive a blazing 25mph the entire rest of the way. You waited until the Seabring was parked on a cute, tree-lined neighborhood street to speak again.

“I’m not going to lie, I’m a little offended you don’t want me to meet your mom,” you said finally. Adrian laughed, doubling over so sharply you were afraid he was going to smack his face on the steering wheel.

“She’s the one who should be offended. She’s a total fucking bitch and I don’t want you to meet her because I don’t want her to, like, get her stupidness all over you.”

“Babe…” you breathed. “Respectfully, what the fuck?”

Adrian raked his hands over his face. “You don’t get it.”

“Okay. You’re right. I don’t think I get it,” you agreed. You laid a hand on his arm. “But, clearly it’s stressing you out. So, decision made, easy peasy!”

Adrian peeked at you from behind his hands. “Yeah?”

“Yeah! Although…” you hesitated to ask because you could only imagine you weren’t going to like the answer. “How are we going to get in without your mom finding out?”

“You’re lucky I love you,” you grumbled, wiggling in his grasp. “Your hand is so far up my ass I’m starting to feel like a puppet.”

“Just let go of the window sill!” Adrian hissed. “I’ve got you, I’m not going to let you fall.”

You groaned and finally relented, knowing for a fact that Adrian did not have you. But the boy was going to have to learn his lesson the hard way, you supposed. The two of you fell into a tangled heap, your elbow landing squarely in his ribs, his knee striking against your hip in a surge of pain, your forehead colliding with his chin.

“Ow fuck – ow, ow, fucking hell, Adrian,” you grumbled, trying to gain any sort of leverage, but your hands were sinking into some sort of fabric over and over again on either side of Adrian while he tried to get his hands in between you, making sure you weren’t injured.

“Sorry! Sorry, are you okay? Are you alright? Speak so I know you’re not concussed!” Adrian said, scrambling. You rolled your eyes and batted his hand away.

“I’m fine,” you grumbled. “That is not how you check for a concussion, by the way.”

“What…what is this?” you asked. Whatever it was groaned under your weight as you struggled to your knees. “Is this a futon? Why do you have a futon in your basement?”

You climbed off of him with a bit of difficulty before you turned your attention towards the rest of the basement. “What the f – ”

Adrian clapped a hand over your mouth from behind. He was blazingly warm against your back, his other arm wrapped tightly around your waist like he was afraid you were going to run. You swayed slightly in his arms as you regained steady footing, your balance entirely thrown off by his sudden seizure of you. You nipped at his palm gently and he let you go. You turned to find his wide eyes focused on his slightly wet palm.

“Care to explain the drugs, Adrian?” you asked, this time managing to keep a lid on your volume.

He simply shrugged. “What do you mean? Where else would I put it?”

“Where did this all come from?” you asked, turning to look at it all again – pallets of drugs (was that fucking cocaine?) and what had to be millions of dollars, carefully banded and stacked in various places. You reached out to run your hand across the money but Adrian batted your hand away.

“That’s blood money, don’t touch it!”

“Where did all this come from, Adrian?”

“What, you think I’d just leave drugs and cash at crime scenes where anyone could take it? Like corrupt fucking police? Absolutely not,” he asserted, crossing his arms over his chest. “Can’t believe you think I should let the cops have all this.”

“I never said that, Adrian!” you exclaimed. “First and foremost, fuck the police – ”

“Fuck the police,” Adrian agreed with a thoughtful nod. 

“Secondly! I just can’t believe you never told me about this! I thought that we tell each other everything? I mean, you told me you were Vigilante on our first date.”

“Second date.”

“Adrian, we’ve been over this, having sex after a first date does not count as a second date.”

“Agree to disagree.” He crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. “And it’s not my fault your pussy is like my personal truth serum.”

“Adrian…”

His face contorted. “What, is that a weird thing to say?”

“It’s not really a normal thing…” 

“Whatever,” he pouted. “You don’t get it.”

“Come on, Ade, you were so excited to show me your basement. So give me the grand tour.”

“Fine,” he huffed. He crossed to a workbench and gestured at it vaguely. “These are my power tools. Over there is my wall of chemicals. Tour concluded.”

“Adrian,” you groaned.

“What?” he snipped. “You wanted the tour – there it is!”

“I cannot believe you made me shimmy through a window for that.”

“Yeah, well, sorry it’s disappointing.” It was said in a way in which you knew he was not sorry at all. He was being petulant. 

“It’s not disappointing, it's just…a lot for me to take in. I’m very interested in it!”

“Uh huh,” Adrian mumbled, mindlessly thumbing through what appeared to be a box full of pocket knives?

Well, you could be petulant too.

“Fine!” you proclaimed, hands on your hips. Adrian rolled his eyes and you bit back a grin before climbing up onto the futon. 

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going back out the window,” you explained with a nonchalant glance over your shoulder at him. He was looking up at you with those big eyes of his and you almost caved instantly. It would be so easy to climb down, wrap your arms around him, kiss the grumpiness right off of his handsome face. But you liked teasing him so much more. 

So you stretched up, desperately trying to hook your fingers into the windowsill that was just out of reach.

“You’re not going to be able to reach that,” Adrian said matter-of-factly.

“Watch me,” you countered, wedging your tongue between your teeth as you tried to will yourself taller out of pure spite. 

“Do you think you’re magically going to get taller or…?” Adrian asked like he could read your goddamn mind.

“Be quiet, Adrian, I’m concentrating,” you snipped back. You rolled up onto your tiptoes but the physics of standing on a soft surface made that change negligible. You dropped your arms down with a huff and jumped off the futon.

“Okay, I’m using the door!” 

“What?” Adrian gasped, lunging for you as you feinted towards the basement door. You laughed in delight as he grabbed you by the waist and yanked you backwards onto the futon, pinning you beneath him.

“Oh no! You caught me!” you wheezed out, all the air knocked out of your lungs.

Adrian’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Were you really going to go out the door?”

“Well, well, look at the situation we find ourselves in,” you commented drily, ignoring the question, batting your eyelashes at Adrian. 

“If you don’t answer my questions just know I know a lot of really effective torture techniques,” Adrian said lowly, a familiar hunger already creeping into his expression. You ran your fingers through his curls, dragging your nails against his scalp. “Are you trying to distract me?” 

“Me? Never,” you murmured. He shivered against you and you gave his hair a testing pull. His mouth dropped open slightly and you took the opportunity to sweep your tongue across his lower lip. He whimpered into your mouth as his hips rolled against yours instinctively. 

“Someone’s eager,” you assessed, grasping at his shirt and trying to untuck it from his jeans. “What did it, the puppet thing? Threatening to torture me? Tackling me onto your weird sex futon?”

“It is not a weird sex futon! Just a regular futon!” Adrian laughed against your neck and then winced. “Stop making me laugh, I can feel it in my dick.”

You hooked a leg over his hip. “Then maybe you ought to do something with that dick of yours.”

“I really want to have sex with you right now,” Adrian began.

“Why do I feel like there’s a but coming – ”

“Butts can’t come,” Adrian snickered. Then he shook his head like a hapless puppy, his curls tossing about. God he was such a dork sometimes. But he was your dork. “Though, I do sometimes feel like I could come just by looking at yours.”

You narrowed your gaze at him despite how adorably stupid he was being. “Just say it, Adrian. Why can’t we have sex right now?”

“The thing is…you’re kind of loud?” Adrian said with a wince. Then his eyebrows lifted. “And I love that about you. I love how loud you are. I love thinking about how if we lived in Metropolis Superman for sure would have heard us having sex and he’d be so fucking jealous. Thinking about it right now actually is making me, uh, a little hard – ”

“Adrian!”

“I’m just being honest!” he huffed. You decided not to comment on exactly who was the loud one in the relationship because you knew he would take it as a challenge and you liked hearing all the little pathetic sounds he’d make. He pushed his glasses up his nose only for them to slide right back down again as he looked down at you. “My mom cannot hear us.”

You nodded slightly. “I understand that that might be embarrassing for you. We don’t have to.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be embarrassed!” he said, eyes wide. “I just don’t want her to know you’re here. Because if she hears us then she’ll ask who you are, and then she’ll want to know how we met and if we want snacks and if you’re staying for dinner and it’s a whole fucking thing.”

“Ade, that sounds very normal.” You propped yourself up slightly on your elbows. You hooked a finger into the collar of his rugby shirt. “What if I promise to be quieter than a church mouse?”

“What does that mean? I don’t really have a reference point for how quiet that is?” he replied, his tone tinged with the beginnings of a classic Adrian spiral. “On a scale of like 1 to 10 where 1 is – ”

You interrupted him with a kiss, your tongue wasting no time dipping into his already open mouth. He came alive, wriggling against you, hands grabbing hold of your biceps, grip tight, muscles taut and somewhere between pushing you away and pulling you even closer.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he murmured against your lips. 

“It’s just an expression, love,” you replied, leaning up to kiss the tip of his nose. Then you narrowed your gaze slightly, squinting to study the color of his eyes up so close. In the dark basement his pupils threatened to swallow the dark green whole. Well, the darkness and your hand that had slipped below the waist of his jeans probably had something to do with it too. 

“How about if I get too loud then you just put your hand here,” you instructed, bringing his hand over your mouth and pressing it firmly. 

“Okay,” Adrian said, practically drooling. “I think I can do that.”

“Well then, problem solved!”

You were working to shimmy his jeans down slightly when he grabbed you by the wrist. 

“I wanna go down on you,” he breathed.

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “Okay. We can do both things…unless you’re in a rush for some reason?”

“It’s just that if you keep touching my dick like that I’m going to come in my pants, and I really want to put it in you,” he said, practically a whisper. There was absolutely zero reason for that sentence to be as hot as it was.

“Why is it that you seem like you’re begging every single time even though we’ve had sex a lot, Adrian,” you teased gently, brushing a stray curl out of his face. 

“What if you change your mind, hm?” Adrian asked, dipping his head so you could scratch your fingers across his scalp. “What if one day you wake up and you’re like, oh gosh, I never want to have sex with that weirdo ever again?”

“First of all, being a weirdo is strangely part of your charm,” you replied, pausing to kiss his forehead. “Second of all, I do think you’ve ruined me for life. You dick game is incomprehensibly good and you’ve literally made me go temporarily blind with your head between my legs. I don’t want to have sex with anyone but you.”

“Not even Peacemaker? Because I really couldn’t blame you if you did want to have sex with him. Trust me, I get it, he’s kind of a perfect human man,” Adrian insisted like he was rationalizing in an argument he was having with only himself. His lips pursed. “Although he is kind of all hard edges so having sex with him is kinda sharp which you might not like.”

You were already reaching between the two of you to undo your button-down shirt. 

“Not even Peacemaker,” you affirmed. Adrian seemed to wrestle against his own grin, both pleased as punch that you didn’t want to have sex with anyone but him, and also a bit insulted that you didn’t want to have sex with his favorite person in the world. 

Tugging your shirt open, you guided his hands up to the front clasp of your bra and used his fingers to flick it open. Whatever logic war was raging in his brain was struck silent by the sight of your breasts. Maybe it was an unfair hand to play, but you wanted your boyfriend to stop thinking about his best friend and start thinking a little more about fucking you senseless. 

He wasted no time taking each of your nipples into his mouth in turn, because, as always, he insisted it was only fair for them both to get the same amount of attention. Though you’d never asked, you were fairly certain Adrian had been the type of kid to make sure each toy got the same amount of playtime so that no one toy felt left out.

He swapped his mouth for his hand on your chest and kissed his way down the rest of your body. He deftly yanked your pants and underwear down, kissing the inside of your knees as he peeled them the rest of the way off your body. In his eagerness to get down between your legs he scooted down the futon, his boot kicked one of the metal shelves behind him. The whole unit swayed slightly, the metal ringing out in a resonant sound. 

“Adrian?” A woman’s voice called from upstairs. You froze, but Adrian wasn’t deterred. “Are you down there, sweetie?”

Adrian’s mouth was decidedly preoccupied between your legs so he didn’t answer – it was a good thing, because it probably would have involved some absolutely blatant response about the fact that he was, in fact, down there. You pushed at his head but he only looked up at you with a hungry glint in his eyes as he dragged his tongue through your folds, painfully slowly. You hissed in response and he moved his hips slightly against the futon, settling in for a hearty meal. When Adrian ate you out it was almost always multiple courses, a real fine dining experience. 

He hadn’t even put his fingers in you yet – just used one hand to spread you open wider for him while the other still played with your breasts, alternating between them, pinching and palming and scratching. His face was pressed so firmly between your legs, his tongue so deep into you you wondered if he was trying to eat his way to your heart. 

“Jesus, Adrian!” you whispered, your heel kicking at his hip, trying to get him to ease up a little. But he was hyper focused, like he was speedrunning his way to your orgasm. He moved, wrapping his arms around your thighs, pinning your hips down as they tried to wriggle away from him for just a little reprieve. 

You heard footsteps on the stairs and you dug your heels into the futon, trying to pry yourself loose from his perfect, stupid fucking mouth. Instead, he traced his teeth over your sensitive clit and you came hard suddenly. You clapped your own hand over your mouth and Adrian batted it away. You managed to stay quiet, the only sound your own ragged breath in the quiet of the basement and the wet, obscene noise of Adrian’s mouth against you.

Except Adrian continued his ministrations between your legs, letting up with his mouth only to look up at you and grin while he slowly slid two fingers into you. He had that calculated look in his eye again and you knew he was studying you. He liked knowing exactly how each movement, each touch affected you. He crooked his fingers inside you, watching closely as you bit down hard on your lower lip in a desperate bid to stay quiet.

He was doing it on purpose. He wanted an excuse. 

You hated giving him what he wanted so easily when he was being a menace but you could taste your own blood on your tongue and he used his other hand to rub at your clit while he kissed your hip bone. A noise squeaked out past your lips and Adrian’s grin grew into a full fledged smile, the kind where you could see all his teeth. The kind that was both predatory and full of genuine delight. 

He moved his fingers faster, pushed deeper, bit hard at your hip, bruising the skin. You fumbled for his head but you could barely see straight. You managed to pull a fistfull of hair but it only made him giggle before he lapped at your cunt and made you come undone all over again. 

“Adrian!” you hissed through the rheumy film of your orgasm. Adrian pulled his fingers free and popped them straight into his mouth and pure, wet want flooded your own. 

“Adrian?” There was a knock at the basement door. You clapped your hands over your burning face but Adrian just seemed annoyed.

“Fuck off, mom!” he called, sliding his way up your body to bite at the sensitive spot below your ear. He loosely pressed his hand over your lips and you weren’t sure if you were grateful or pissed. When the friction of his jeans between your legs almost made you sob against his hand, you settled on grateful. 

“Do you have a friend in there with you?” his mom asked. “Should I make some snacks?”

“Jesus fucking – no, mom!” he whined, even as he rolled his hips against you. He grabbed at your breast with his free hand again and you bit his hand in retaliation. 

“Ow!” 

“Are you okay, honey? Please tell me you’re not giving yourself stitches in there again!” his mom continued. She seemed kind of sweet – what the hell was Adrian’s deal?

“Your mom seems nice,” you managed, free of his hand. 

“Stop getting ideas, I can see you getting an idea right now!” Adrian protested, pinning your hands above your head and silencing your mouth with a kiss.

“Adrian, hon, who are you talking to? Is that…is that a girl in there?” His mother’s voice noticeably ascended the scale in pitch and Adrian swallowed your laugh, your shoulders shaking silently. 

“I’m talking to my bros in the Fortnite lobby, Jesus fucking Christ! Can you hop off my dick for like five seconds, please?” Adrian shouted back, pulling away from your mouth, making you unacceptably hungry. When he returned to you, you bit his lip in recompense. He hissed but surged forward anyway, his tongue deep in your mouth. 

“Okay, Addy, you just let me know if you need anything! Just holler! I’ll be upstairs!”

You waited for the sound of footsteps retreating back up the stairs to pull back.

“So, I’m one of the bros now?” you taunted.

“Well, you’re better than one of the bros. You’re like…you’re my best bro. A bro for life. But, like, in a romantic way, a romantic bro,” he explained. You nodded like that made sense. Because, strangely, it did.

“So…Addy?” 

“Please don’t – ”

“It’s kinda cute!”

“No, it makes me sound like a fucking infant. And I’m not an infant. I’m a grown man.”

You giggled. “Yeah, I haven’t forgotten, Ade. As a matter of fact…”

Your hand slid in between you, grasping at him through his pants. He was, unsurprisingly, already completely hard. He hissed through his teeth and then wrangled himself out of his rugby shirt, treating you to a spectacular view of his chest. A thin sheen of sweat covered him in a way that made him look unfairly hot – like the centerfold in a magazine of hot nerds. You ran your hand up from the waist of his pants to the small, pale trail of hair just above and let your fingertips press firmly into the skin of his stomach. His gaze narrowed at you.

“Flip over,” he whispered, voice husky.

“Make me,” you whispered back. Adrian blinked back at you for just a moment before he slipped his hands around your waist and tossed you onto your stomach like it was no effort at all. He reached up and stripped you of the button down and the bra that still clung to your shoulders. His fingertips bit into the swell of your ass but then he paused.

“Sorry, was that okay?” he asked, sounding breathless in a nervous way. You looked back at him and offered a calm smile.

“That was perfect,” you assured him. “You’re perfect.”

“Okay, because if you want to fuck some other way that’s totally okay too, I just thought – ”

“Oh no, not you fucking me while I’m laying on my stomach! Whatever will I do!” you drawled sarcastically as you started to twist in his arms, bringing the back of your hand up to your forehead like some scandalized, vaguely transatlantic woman. Then you paused and blinked at him. “That was sarcasm by the way.”

“Uh, duh, I totally knew that because you love when I fuck you like that! It’s like one of your favorite things. Remember that time we prone-boned and you like totally ruined your sheets?”

“Oh my god, Adrian,” you whined, your hands flying up to cover your increasingly red face. 

“What! It’s just a statement of fact. And a statement of hotness.”

You finished flipping onto your stomach if only to bury your burning face in the futon. Adrian’s hand ran along your damp inner thigh for a moment before he nudged your leg up slightly, and pulled your hips up and flush against his. 

“Oh shit,” he mumbled, and not in the good way. You lifted your head to look at him over your shoulder.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know if I have a condom?”

“You have a fucking arsenal down here but not a single condom?”

“Well, it’s not like I’ve ever had a girl down here before!”

“Aw, is that your roundabout way of saying I’m special?” you asked, batting your eyelashes. But Adrian was too preoccupied scrounging around for a condom. He was so cute doing it you were loathe to tell him all he had to do was open your purse. The man was desperate for it and you were willing to torment him just a little bit – he would be handsomely rewarded for it in the end. 

“Hey Ade?”

“Hold on, I’m sure there’s one here somewhere!” He yanked another drawer open, violently rattling whatever was inside. He slammed a cabinet open to no avail. You started to feel bad, even if you were getting a great view of his impressive physical form in the process. 

“Adrian!” you called, louder this time to get through to him over the small ruckus he was making, but hopefully still quiet enough to not rouse his mother’s suspicions again. Finally, he turned and looked at you dangling a condom from your fingertips. 

“You’re fucking perfect,” he said breathlessly. “No, seriously, I wish I could paint you Titanic-style right now exactly like this.”

Adrian was on top of you again in the blink of an eye, teeth tearing at the foil of the condom and spitting it aside. You watched over your shoulder as he realized he still needed to take his pants off and was trying to figure out balancing the opened condom while he did that. You giggled and held out your hand for him to rest the condom on your palm. 

He tripped up off the couch, halfway out of his pants before he was even fully upright. He hopped on one foot as he desperately tried to free his other from the leg of his jeans, and you were treated to an increasingly silly whispered string of curses. 

When he was finally free he paused, putting his hands on his hips, his chest rising and falling quickly. 

You giggled. “Are you winded?”

“No!” Adrian said, full volume. Your eyes flicked to the ceiling of the basement, but Adrian’s mom seemed to have gotten the memo. “This is…I’m doing breathing exercises, actually. Gotta loosen up my diaphragm for optimal airflow so I can have so much sex with you.”

“Get over here, you absolute goober,” you replied with a beckoning crook of your finger. Adrian stooped beside you to retrieve the condom you were still holding and pressed a quick peck to your lips, upturned in an amused smile.

He settled back between your legs, kneeling on the futon as he rolled the condom on and you waited patiently with your chin in your hands. The feeling of his warm fingers back between your legs surprised you, dragging through your folds, gathering slick before sliding his hand over the condom. 

“Are you good? Are you comfy?” Adrian asked as he grabbed hold of your hips and angled them slightly upward. He positioned himself at your entrance, dragging the tip through your folds, but waited for your approval. You quietly hissed at the sensation.

“Please, Adrian,” you managed. That was approval enough for him – he wasn’t in one of his taunting moods, determined to draw it out forever to the point of insufferability. No, Adrian was borderline efficient. It was a mood he sometimes got into – careful, precise, skilled. He pushed in, a long, slow stretch of flesh, the warm weight of Adrian partially against your back, keeping you pressed into the futon. A hand groped at the flesh of your hip and he gently guided you into the position he needed.

And that made your eyes water, the perfect depth, the perfect speed, the perfect amount of pressure – a gasp dragged from your lips at the angle. Adrian knew what made you tick. You’d witnessed the man disassemble and reassemble a gun with alarming speed on more than one occasion, and he knew how to disassemble you just as easily. 

It took no time at all for pressure and warmth to mount between your legs. 

“Put your hand over my mouth,” you panted.

“What?”

“I don’t think that I can keep being quiet,” you said, voice ragged. As if attempting to prove you wrong, Adrian buried himself, deep and slow, and a yelp came from your lips before you could stop yourself. 

“Right. Okay,” Adrian said in the kind of voice that sounded like he was processing a direct order. You tilted your head up slightly and Adrian dutifully cupped one hand over your mouth.

“Oh shit,” he managed. His fingers flexed against your skin as he thrust into you again, angling your hips ever so slightly once more, perfecting the position. Your needy hand slid under your body and Adrian groaned as your fingers touched at where your bodies were joined, fingers parting around the slick base of his cock for one taunting drag before retreating to your clit. Adrian’s pace faltered and you grinned into his hand. You nipped at his palm again but he stayed firmly in place and instead responded by draping himself further over your back, his weight pressing you further into the futon and your own eager fingers. 

You were close, close, closer as his fingers bit into your skin and you rubbed desperate circles at the apex of your thighs. You clenched around him and Adrian whined. 

“That’s not fair,” he hummed into your hair. He slowed for a frustrating moment and then his mouth was at your ear. “Can I try something?”

A million things raced through your mind – an electric series of possibilities, some of which perhaps bordered on terrifying. But you trusted Adrian. You loved him. Fucking you was a science at which he was studiously determined to excel. So, you nodded. And Adrian draped the full weight of himself on you, carefully, gently. And then he wrapped his other hand over your eyes, casting you into total darkness. 

“I’ve got you,” he said, his voice low in his chest against your back, words that sounded equally like reassurance and threat. A loving adage and a declaration of total possession. Your body responded unconsciously, pushing back against his thrusting hips, terribly wanting. “I want you to come, just for me, okay?”

You made a noise, something wrenched from deep within, muffled expertly by Adrian’s capable hands. He dragged his tongue along the side of your neck and then his teeth nipped the skin. A jolt of pleasure ran down your spine. You weren’t sure how much longer you could hold out when Adrian was dragging himself in and out of you with a studied speed, burying deep every time, hitting that perfect spot. 

“’m close, are you…close,” Adrian slurred before biting at your jaw, his words barely coherent. 

“Mhm,” you spoke into his hand, sure you were probably drooling. You didn’t care. Adrian nudged your knee ever so slightly with his own, spreading you open just a bit more. But it was enough. In the total darkness of Adrian’s embrace, you crashed over the edge, a shout muffled into his hand. You breathed quickly through your nose, finding it significantly harder to catch your breath and Adrian chased you into bliss only a second later, a curse hissed through his clenched teeth, certainly too loud. His hand released your mouth as his forehead fell into the curve of your shoulder. His sweaty hair tickled at your chin and you turned, still blind, to clumsily press a kiss to his temple. 

“Well, that was new,” you remarked, still trying to catch your breath. In the darkness beneath Adrian’s hand, the edges of your vision sparked.

“Was it okay? Did you like it?”

“It was more than okay, babe,” you murmured assurance. That was Adrian – aiming to please, even when it came to dabbling in something like minor sensory deprivation.

After a long moment, his hand fell from your eyes to the futon with an audible thump and he slipped out of you, laying half on top of you and half wedged beside you on the futon.

“I feel like I don’t have any bones anymore,” he muttered. “You stole them. You’re a bone thief.”

“I’ll keep your bones safe in my bone collection. Promise,” you laughed breathlessly. He perked up slightly, lifting his head so he could look at your face. 

“Yeah?” he asked, eyes wide with puppydog-esque devotion.

“Yeah. You’ve got centerpiece level bones. Real main attraction stuff.”

He brushed your hair from your face, and then wiped your cheeks free of tears, thumb grazing across your lower lip, collecting any errant spit. He popped his thumb into his mouth and you recoiled.

“Adrian, gross!”

“Sorry I just want part of you in me,” he replied like you were the one being unreasonable.

You smirked at him and shifted so that you could slip on top of him, straddling his narrow waist. “Maybe it’s time we revisit that conversation about peg – ”

“Adrian?” 

Adrian’s mother’s voice came from directly outside the door. You clamped your mouth shut, looking down at Adrian with wide eyes. 

“What, mom?” he called back, rolling his eyes, his head falling back onto the futon. 

“Do you and your girlfriend want to come upstairs for dinner? I made a baked mac ‘n cheese with the breadcrumb topping you like so much!” 

“Girlfriend?” he scoffed, voice traitorously too high. “What girlfriend? You’re so crazy, I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Oh, sweetie, Mrs. Peterson from across the street called and she said she saw you sneaking in through the basement window with a very pretty young lady!”

You had to laugh. There was simply no other choice. Adrian groaned and draped his arm over his face, treating you to a wonderful (very biteable) view of his bicep. “Fuck, I knew I always hated Mrs. Peterson. No trustworthy person has that many chihuahuas.”

When Adrian didn’t respond one way or the other to the evidence presented, his mother called out again, “Does the pretty young lady like mac ‘n cheese?”

You grinned down at Adrian who appeared to be going through the five stages of grief in quick succession. Luckily for him it was going to take a lot more than an overbearing mother to scare you off. If you could survive the Vigilante of it all, you could survive anything. You leaned down, bit Adrian’s bicep and then kissed his swollen lips before he could protest.

“The pretty young lady loves mac n’ cheese!” you called back.

adrian taglist: @countvonklit @tlfg-adrianchase @vigilantexreader @faelvz @a-young-g0d @euinein @fangirl48 @navs-bhat (as always, if you want to join my taglist, just let me know! respectfully, no minors! there are some people who have requested in the past and if you're a minor/I couldn't verify if you're over 18 you've been taken off, I'm sorry!)

[babyonboard]

jack abbot x f!reader⋆. 𐙚˚࿔ mdni

I just know Jack is an absolute menace in bed.

So composed, so smug while he nails you into the mattress. His hand tangled in your hair, pushing your face down in the pillow with your ass in the air.

“S-so-o good” you groan, your words choppy from each time he pounds into you.

“What’s that baby?” He speaks casually, like you just asked him a question over dinner. It’s mean, he knows even better than you that you can’t make your words any clearer, not with his insane force and your mouth muffled by the pillow.

“J-Ja-a-ckhhhh” the sounds coming out of your mouth are completely out of your control at this point. You weren’t even sure what you were gonna say anyways.

“My poor girl. You can’t take it?” If you were in your right mind, you would roll your eyes and scold him for being so demeaning.

“Mmm g-o-nna cum” you manage a few frantic words, something of a warning.

He tsks his tongue, like he’s thinking. “Hmm, it sounds like you said you wanna cum… but we both know you would need permission for that.” His voice is becoming gruff, but it still doesn’t sound like he’s breaking a sweat. It more so sounds like he’s having too much fun with this.

A loud whine rips from your throat, earning you a sharp slap on the ass. Even though he knows you like it, knows you ask for it, he’ll still rub that spot later and say he’s sorry.

He lifts you by your shoulders, watching you try and fail to hold yourself up on all fours. Leaning down from behind you, his scruff scratches against your cheek. As much as he can try to put on his whole tough guy act, he simply cannot help himself from kissing your cheek.

“Think you can do that for me doll? Think you can ask nicely?” His voice is borderline pornographic in your ear. He’ll never admit it, but he lets up the force a little bit to give you a little room to form a semi-coherent sentence.

Suddenly feeling a little less pathetic, you’re able to sit up on your elbows as his lips and teeth dig into your neck. “P-please can I cum?”

He licks over his bite mark, trailing saliva all the way up to your ear. “Of course you can, baby.” A hint of desperation is laced in his voice. He’s starting to fall apart.

It’s all the confirmation you need before you’re grinding your hips back against his and falling on your face again. You pulse around him as your cum absolutely gushes around him.

“That’s my sweet girl.”

[keerysaftercare]

can i mayhaps request steve with a nerdy fem reader?? like glasses and awkward but not really that shy just kinda socially unaware? idk how to request things sorry if this sucks </3

steve would be totally whipped for this.

i mean, think about how far he has come as a person. he hangs around nerds all time now.

i can imagine him struggling to keep up with you and dustin's nerdy little conversations about this and that, some science theories that don't quite make any sense to him.

but steve would (and could) sit there for hours every day and listen to you talk.

i can imagine him also asking you questions about things just to hear you yap and get all excited.

does he understand it? not one bit. but does he still love watching you freak out over it? absolutely.

he'd one hundred percent tease you. a lot. but especially someone with glasses, i mean, you look so adorable. how could he not?

you'd be mid rant or focusing really hard on some book, completely immersed in your own little world when he'd come over to you and pluck the glasses off your face.

he can't help it! he just wants your attention. then before you can scold him for it, steve would lean down and kiss you.

"you're just too irresistible, baby. y'know for someone so smart, you don't seem to understand what you do to a man."

steve would one hundred percent adjust your glasses for you, too.

he's a gentleman at the end of the day, despite his teasing.

if they sit a little crooked on your face he'd adjust them to sit upright.

if they're falling down your nose slightly he'd reach over and push them back up for you.

"what? can't have those slippin' off your pretty face. how else would you be able to see me and my irresistible charm, hm?"

[rusticfurnace]

missed opportunity to give him a tighter tac shirt.

[bylrlvr]

i’ve played these games before

rare aesthetic: closeted gay men mourn for their lost potential with the love of their lives

[gabgabgabriel]

i hope everything works out for you, bisexual person on Tumblr

[ramune78]

projection final boss

@_castlebyler on TikTok ^^

[buckyarchives]

I LIKE JOCKS / Steve .H

Steve beats himself up over the fact that you’re Eddie’s type, and Eddie is totally your type as well, and you’re type is absolutely not Steve Harrington.

w.c: 6k

Tags/warnings: Jealous!Steve, Oblivious!Steve, brain damage Steve, alternative reader (Jesus Christ I was so self indulgent she’s literally me) slight dry humping, dialogue heavy? Niche punk politics, Eddie is alive and canon is my bitch. Not proof read LOL

AO3 | THE ARCHIVES

-

“This-this–this is all just shit!” Eddie is one more cassette away from a meltdown. His pretentious music taste protrudes from his pores and he’s currently making it everyone’s problem. “Seriously? Please tell me you are not actually playing Rick Astley on your radio?”

“Are you the DJ here?” Robin asks, not like it was an actual question, swiping the tapes from Eddie's hand and putting them back where they belonged. “Yeah, thought so.”

It has been three days since Eddie Munson got back from LA, attempting to seek out new music and a new scene, yet somehow he's back in his hometown—Hawkins has a strange pull. And after everything he's gone through with these people, being apart really made him feel like something was missing.

And there has been constant terror at the WSQK since his return.

“Are you going to be like this all the time?” Steve asked, annoyed and swiveling around in a chair. Just wanting to get back to work so they'll be prepared for the next show.

“Until you guys start playing some real music.”

Steve sighs, both palms running over his face. “Jesus Christ."

Robin laughs to herself, organizing a bin of records, "Steve's just annoyed because he thinks you're gonna take his job.”

Eddie's eyebrow arch, barely visible behind his mop of curls. Sending Steve a look, a cheeky look. Before the metalhead goes back to the shelves of music, his finger grazes over the spine in search of this so-called real music.

Then suddenly, a shriek leaves Eddie's mouth, grasping the cassettes as if the secret to the universe was written along the spines. “Where in the hell did you get this rockin’ Robin?”

The girl's head shoots up, stepping over to see what Eddie was looking at. Her head cocked to gaze over his shoulder, Eddie handed over a tape from a cardboard box left on the desk.

“See, this is real music! Minor threat, Descendants, Bad Brains… Why are you hiding this gold?”

Robin clicks her tongue, “Not mine, theirs a girl who runs a late-night alternative station down the hall. She goes up to DC, New York, and Chicago a lot and gets them at shows. She is super, really nice.”

Steve not-so subtly perks up at the mention of you. Trying to play it off by looking over at the tapes like he hadn't looked at them over a million times before, Steve couldn't afford adding any more suspicion Robin had about Steve's not-so-secret infatuations.

“Where are you hiding this chick?” Eddie asks, putting the tapes back into the cardboard box.

“She's out of town,” Steve responds a little too quickly, sounding almost snippy as he has his arms crossed, still swiveling in his chair. Trying hard not to grumble at the fact you've been gone for a week now.

“Hopefully getting more good music, you'll have to introduce me.” Eddie gawked, Steve rolled his eyes at the implication.

On cue, the loud echo of the front doors of the Squawk rang through. Steve popped out of his chair on instinct, brain kicking himself after, to see who it was. Well, he knew who it was.

“That might be our neighbor,” Robin noted, getting up to smack your tapes out of Eddie's hands. “Put those back, I’ll return these and introduce you two.”

“Sweet,” Eddie grinned, his various metal accessories clanking against each other as he headed for you. Steve's stomach suddenly felt like it was caving in on itself.

Steve felt too eager with his steps towards the hallway, trailing behind an even more eager Eddie Munson, Robin leading the two to you.

The sun was shining through the windows, casting a gaze upon the narrow room. You took big, confident strides down the hall. A box in hand, your hair fell in that effortlessly messy way Steve has tried to accomplish his entire life, outfit adorned in political or band buttons. You presented yourself with this soft edge that Steve couldn’t help but think about late at night.

Your eyes found the group, Steve swears they found his eyes first—before bouncing to the unfamiliar metalhead. Of course. A large smile spread across your face, “I’m back! Hopefully I didn’t miss anything awesome while I was gone, and oh, who is this?”

Eddie put his hand out to shake yours, you had to quickly shift the box you held to your left hand and balance it against your hip.

Steve almost scoffed out loud, did Eddie not see that your hands were occupied? He could have reached out and grabbed the box from you, like a gentleman, but that tug inside him held his hands down—body unmoving.

“Eddie. Nice to see someone else who listens to real music.”

You shook Eddie's hand, smiling and introducing yourself. Eddie's smile matched yours and it just made Steve want to wipe the smugness off his face.

“Whatcha’ got in there?” Eddie's head tipped to look inside the box you held.

“Oh! Some tapes I got from New York this past week, some punk and youth crew stuff, you ever been to shows there?” You asked him.

Eddie's curls shook with his head, “been meaning to.”

You met his eyes, “I can always show you around if you want.”

“I’d love that.”

God, Steve was going to throw up.

Some other words were exchanged, Robin cut in and asked about your trip, Eddie asked about “real” music, again. Steve just stood there like an idiot, swaying on his feet. Mostly because he genuinely did feel like he was going to hurl. His vision fuzzed and his head spun, that loud and annoying ring that had been plaguing his ears for over a year now kicked in.

Then suddenly Steve was in your booth, the warm room with the familiar copy and paste flyers that covered your wall. Steve doesn’t really remember moving his feet to get here, but he was.

“Steve?” Your voice muffled behind the ringing, but he heard you enough to snap out of his daze. “Are your ears and head doing that thing again?”

Steve's mouth felt dry, “Yeah, the ringing.”

You stood only a few feet from him now, leaning against your desk while Robin and Eddie rummaged through your records. It was just you and him now.

“I told you to go to the doctor for that,” you told him. Looking him up and down and checking for any other concerning signs.

“It’s fine. I’m fine, really.” Steve said, not to worry you, despite the vertigo still possessing him most days.

“You’re so stubborn, Steve.” You mumbled, bending over to search through a messy junk drawer.

Your booth was a stark contrast to rockin robins. It was messy, records and tapes stacked everywhere. Your clothes and belongings were scattered around like you lived here, which was partly true. A few instruments leaned up against furniture. It was comfy and warm, paper flyers and posters covered every inch, and overlapped each other. You had been here for many more years than Steve and Robin had, so of course it was more lived in.

Steve watched your hands switch from a second drawer, brows adorably furrowed together, not even realizing he was smiling at the sight. You found what you were looking for, turning back to Steve, “You should start wearing these when your ears ring, or just go to the doctor as I told you.”

You held out two earbuds in your palm, “I wear them at shows, I switched out the rubber part so—no cooties.” You laugh to yourself before dropping them in Steve’s hand. “They're expensive ones, so don’t lose them or I’ll kill your entire family”

“Thanks.” He croaked, vision still hazy. He liked the dimness of your space. Steve brought the buds up, trying to shove them into his ear canal. Yet, he was only met with more discomfort, already in a bad mood, his face only grew more sour.

And you noticed. Of course you did. Tipping on your toes to check his ears, laughing to yourself. It brought Steve's mind back down to earth a little.

“Hey, you got 'em’ upside down.” You spoke gently, brushing his hair from his face and adjusting the buds to fit comfortably. Relief washed over him and his body was incredibly warm from your sudden closeness.

Steve just hoped you didn’t notice the tips of his ears growing hot pink.

“Better?” You asked, the ringing stopped and he could only comfortably hear you. No background noise. Steve could seriously get used to this.

(Steve definitely couldn’t hear Eddie and Robin in the corner, watching the interaction from afar with a teasing giggle on their lips.)

“Better.” He forced out a thin-lipped smile, you deserved better than that but his brain was still a little fuzzy.

You hesitated for a moment, watching over the brown haired boy attentively. Before you awkwardly gave him a pat on the back, rubbing the red sweater-covered shoulder for a moment before parting from Steve. Cold. Steve’s head fell to the floor when you turned your back to go join whatever the other two were doing.

You were unfortunately too quick to fall into mindless chatter with Eddie, you two conversed about music genres and instruments that Steve had no clue about. Not a single guess. Even Robin had half the mind to know what you were talking about. And Steve had never felt more out of the loop. Biting his cheek and standing awkwardly off to the side, god, why was he even here?

Steve felt pathetic, grasping at straws for your attention around Eddie was going to just push him further in the friend-zone that—in full honesty—he never had a chance to climb out of.

Despite, being in your own world. Every few minutes when Eddie had his head held back laughing at something funny you said. Your eyes would find Steve instead, an unspoken expression of worry, one Steve could only see at pity.

“Would you wanna go out tonight? Theirs a dive bar uptown called the Hideout, you been?” Eddie asked you, catching your attention once more from Steve’s pitiful state.

Your face scrunched up, “That place where all the washed-up drunk old heads hang out at?”

“Okay, it’s not appealing, but my band plays there now and then. Just a few hours, maybe a few drinks?”

Steve's ears started ringing again, the more Eddie spoke the more it sounded like he was asking you on a date right in front of him and Robin. Real subtle, real classy Eddie Munson.

What made it even worse is that you said yes.

“I don’t drink, but I’ll hang for a little. I got a curfew of 9:15 though, gotta get back here for the show.” You beamed, overjoyed by the offer. Steve's knuckles went white, and that same dizziness took over.

So he excused himself to the Rockin’ Robin booth.

-

Steve bit his cheek hard. Lips swollen and bleeding from picking at them. His eyes glanced at the clock ticking again. Foot bouncing.

Steve didn’t really have life outside of work, or the chaos of the children that followed him like a cult. So despite Rockin'Robin's radio time being over multiple hours ago, he still chooses to laze around off the clock. Better than the ghost of a home he lives in now.

Check the clock again, it was 8:47. You were probably still out on your date with Eddie. Telling him his eyes and curly hair are pretty or probably sucking face in that dive bar after talking about how good his band sounds. It was gonna drive Steve to insanity.

Steve checks the clock again.

“Oh my god, will you spit it out?” Robin yelled.

“What?”

Robin dropped her pen on her notebook, turning her head to glare at Steve from her place on the couch. “I can hear you thinking yourself into a hole, much less the way you’re acting like you’re going through withdrawal from her.”

Steve mentions your name, slipping from his tongue without thought like a prayer.

“I knew it.” Robin shook her head proudly, just satisfied to figure out the main issues of Steve’s worries. “You’re jealous.”

“What?” Steve choked out, offended at the accusation coming from his best friend. “Why on earth would I be jealous of her being on a date with Eddie right now?”

“Oh my god!” Robin sprang from her couch, almost excited. “Is this room filled with truth serum?”

“Besides the point, I’m not jealous.” Steve shook his head, as if the motion would convince himself, slumping further in his chair.

“Okay well—besides the point—you have no reason to, by the way,” Robin adds.

“Why’s that?” Steve asks quickly, completely throwing out the I’m not jealous “ act. “Are they not, you know, on a date?”

“Steve.”

“What?”

Robin felt fuzzy with this oblivious straight male in front of her, feeling the exact way she felt in that mall bathroom high out of her mind on Russian torture drugs.

A part of her wanted to keep Eddie's secret under wraps, it wasn’t necessarily a promise and Steve had done more than enough to keep up his promise with her.

So she bit the bullet to spare Steve’s misery.

“Eddie is very gay,” Robin whispers.

“Oh.”

The Déjà vu hit them both like a freight train. Steve shook off the feeling.

“Okay, well, hypothetically.” Steve started, trying to keep his eyes away from Robin’s intense stare.

“Sure, hypothetically.”

“Hypothetically, if Eddie wasn’t gay, you know, he’d be the type of guy she'd go after, right?”

Robin rolled her eyes, not even believing this conversation could have possibly become this juvenile. “I don’t know, maybe you can ask her?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because you look at her with googly eyes.” Robin threw it out there. No hypothetical.

“I do not!” Steve defended.

“Yes. Yes, you do!” Robin yells, “It’s honestly insufferable sometimes!”

“No, it’s not!”

“Steve, I’m going to throw this chair at your head.”

Steve sighed heavily, running his head through his hair, contemplating letting Robin throw the chair at him to just take him out of his misery.

“Either way, if I did look at her with googly eyes, or whatever you said, it doesn’t matter,” Steve said, with little fight left in him. Which was unusual for Steve Harrington and it ached Robin’s heart

“Why not?”

Steve opens his mouth to speak, but only a croak is heard. Looking around at his surroundings and hoping a message would just pop up for him on what to do, what to say, and how to feel.

“I like her a lot, Robin. But I’m not what she wants and-and that’s okay! I’m not gonna try to be the person she wants so I’ll just be around for when she needs someone… like me.”

“You’re so self-deprecating, it’s going to kill you,” Robin mutters into her hands, frustration evident on her face. “What do you mean you are not what she wants? Did you ask her?”

“No, but I mean, I can assume,” Steve spoke with a laugh lingering on his words, self-deprecating, as Robin said. Confused by the obvious in front of him.

“Assume what?” Robin asked.

“Look at me, Robin!” Steve motions to himself, from the top of his head to his worn-down Nikes. “I’m ex High School royalty, mind you, a piece of shit High School royalty. Who also fell off before graduation, that is like the exact opposite of who she would be attracted to.”

“Yeah. I’m gonna throw this chair at you.” Robin huffs, pacing now. Stressed out from Steve’s own stupidity. “You graduated what? Over two years ago? And you are still using High School politics to define your life?— Oh my god, that little shithead was so right.”

“Dustin?—Hey, no, no, he is not. Don't say that.” Steve shook his head wildly, offended.

“Uh-huh, yes, he is.” Robin nodded aggressively in response. “Either way, have you stopped to notice that she didn’t know you in high school? And that you have also changed a lot since the whole ‘King Steve’ era”

Steve went silent, not really taking a moment to remember that. God, he was so self-absorbed. You weren’t even in his and Robin’s grade to witness the peak of his assholery that constantly haunts him, that was his constant reminder to be better every day.

“So yeah, Dustin is right.”

“Well, you don’t have to add that in to make me feel like shit,” Steve mumbled, arms crossed and practically pouting.

“Stop putting yourself in a box and stereotyping your girlfriend. Just talk to her.”

“She not—“

“Steve.”

“Whatever, I’ll talk to her.” Steve mentioned, “But, what do I even say?”

“How many times have you hit your head—actually don’t answer that. Do what you would usually do with a girl, confess! Ask her out!”

“I haven’t successfully asked a girl out since junior year. My charm is dead.” Steve said, A slight panic is rising. Understanding now he’s actually confronting his infatuation with you, never having talked about it out loud. Robin fell into this information like it was a known fact already and Steve tried not to dwell on that too long.

“You’ll think of something, Harrington,” Robin said, giving him a small pat on the back and walking away from the conversation. Leaving him alone right when his panic set in. No advice. No support.

Steve was fucked now, especially when his brain decided to rely on Robin Buckley for dating advice.

Then, he heard the door slam closed, truly leaving Steve alone with his thoughts.

He could just ask you out, but the embarrassment of you rejecting him and thinking he’s weird would be worse than having to witness you dating Eddie Munson. Maybe.

Steve could test the waters with you, throw out some cheeky compliments, and make a request to hang out on one more. See how you take that and go from there. Steve thinks, every time he's done that he’s fallen more into the friend zone. His pride was too defeated for that route.

The ringing was back and his head started to pound. Steve’s hazy eyes found the clock again. That special time he found himself looking forward to, maybe something would come to him.

9:30

With a heavy sigh and even heavier shoulders, Steve walked himself to the radio booth and switched to your channel. Getting comfortable in his seat to mull over how he can get you to fall for him despite everything.

The soft wine of a guitar rang through, “hello my night owls, this is Waiting Room radio with your host, back from her treacherous journey to the big apple for that oh-so anticipated Youth of Today show… I brought back some souvenirs and it’s not just the Sharpie stains on my fist… here is “Take a Stand” by Youth of Today”

Steve didn’t love some of the music you listened to. It was angry and fast-paced and messy. Yet for some reason, he tunes in most nights that you are live, even if it’s just to hear your smooth voice introduce yourself and the music. It was enough.

-

It had been a few hours of busying himself at the station enough so that thoughts didn’t protrude into his mind. It was getting late and your radio time had ended a while ago, a yawn escaped him and Steve decided it was better to leave now before getting too sleepy to drive. He’s crashed on the stuff couch too many nights recently and his aching back was evidence of it.

Steve knew he’d be back tomorrow, not caring enough to be thorough with packing his stuff up before he headed through the hallway and out the door.

He kept his eyes to his feet until they passed your studio, his gaze betraying him as he glanced at your door and the dark-tinted windows. Steve’s sneakers squeaked on the tile when he noticed the lights still on, the outline of you still lingering.

Which wasn’t unusual, common actually. You spent a lot of overnights here abusing the radio system and coffee machine. Steve only knew this because he found hanging out with you on your overnights was a good excuse not to go back to his ghost of a home.

It was the start of this friendship between the two of you, despite the differences in background. He didn’t meet you through fighting monsters or cracking Russian code, no trauma bonding through bruised eyes and drugs.

You just saw Steve for more than his family or reputation, he didn’t really understand how and why you spared him your time and care. But it was something he had to learn to appreciate and—obviously after some reflection and confrontation with Robin—to even notice.

Steve's body and feet betrayed him as he stood inches from your door, hand held high and knocking. It was only a few moments before you were standing before him, sweatpants and band t-shirts that looked a few sizes too small and hugged in the right places.

“Late night?” You asked him, unsuspecting, just open.

Steve nodded, “You too?”

“Always.” You grinned, “wanna come in and hang? Or are you gonna try to pester me to go home?”

Despite his worry and anxiety, a smile grew on his face that he couldn’t fight, “not tonight. and yes, I’m all yours.” Steve slid into your space, the flirt escaping his lips before he could realize.

Maybe something about confronting his feelings made it more real. In his hands. Attainable. Steve could only dream.

You found your chair as usual, and Steve moved a cart of records to the floor and sat on your couch-part-time-bed. It looked like you were in the middle of organizing with papers and tapes spread out everywhere in front of you. And you didn’t stop even with Steve’s present in the room.

Steve always liked that he could just live in your space, you never expected anything from him. Just a steady breath and sometimes an opinion of a flyer you’d drawn up.

“How was your date with Eddie?” The words slipped from his mouth before he could realize where his brain was.

Your face instantly scrunched up, almost a look of embarrassment painted on you. Yet, you still scoffed at Steve’s question, “That was the farthest thing from a date ever.”

“It go bad?” Steve asked, no usual sarcastic, just honest.

“Uh, yeah. Well, no—um, I don’t think it was a date to begin with anyways… but I hung out for a little, Eddie's scene is all very nice just… not my usual crowd.”

“Really?” Steve genuinely sounded surprised, finding himself getting more comfortable on your couch as he gazed at you. “You and Eddie seem pretty similar though, like your type. Thought that would go well?”

Steve tried not to let his bitterness linger in his words. You had teased him for his attitude problem before. But you just smiled at him, for no real reason, but you did. “I’m sure Eddie and I will be good friends, but there is a difference between punk and metal.”

Steve could ask about it, never understanding anything about music politics and the differences from what. More often than not he’d ask and barely comprehend much, sometimes he just needed an excuse to listen to you talk or have you look him in the eyes. Steve was just silent tonight.

“And Eddie…” you trailed off, laughing, “…definitely not my type.”

“You got some New York guys that are more your type?” Steve said, his brain too tired to even filter his words. Bitterness wasn’t even laced in his speech anymore, but defeat. Steve didn’t even want to know yet, but he still asked. Bracing for the information that’s only going to kick him further down.

“Steve.” You breathed out, your usual voice thrown away. Replaced with something new, a tone Steve never heard from you, he wasn’t even sure how to describe it.

“What? Do you not have a type? Are you one of those girls who don’t have a type, ya know, that kinda just…” Steve couldn’t stop the word vomit. Curse this comforting feeling that has grown too impossibly strong—built on late nights yearning to not be anywhere but here in this studio, to not be anywhere but with each other. Steve’s chest ached and he just couldn’t shut up. “..just think they don’t have a type but then they go after the same kind of person that’s just like them, they just won't admit it.”

“Steve.” You laughed, amused by the spill of utter nonsense leaving him. The self-inflicted and honestly ridiculous madness he’s driving himself into. “What’s gotten into you?”

He felt like a kid again. Lips pouting and shrugging his shoulders, mumbling a barely audible, “I dunno.”

You almost gave him a wary look, turning away and avoiding his gaze to busy yourself with anything else. Goddamit. Robin was so wrong and Steve was so going to wring her neck tomorrow.

“Where’s the sudden interest come from? Trying to set me up on a date, Harrington?” You teased.

Steve scoffed.

“That's funny?”

“No, it’s—it’s just, no, it’s nothing.” Steve shook his head, you still couldn’t look at him.

It was silent for a while.

The tension in the room grew heavy all of a sudden, awkward. Any of you could have left at any point, Steve could have excused himself home. You could have gotten up and explained how late it was getting and kicked him out.

But you both stayed put, sitting in the heavy air.

“I have an unfortunate history of falling for jocks, ya know, the boy next door type.” You said, a peace offering that Steve didn’t really deserve disguised as information.

“Unfortunate?” Steve spoke softly, turning his head to try and chase your face that still stayed turned away.

You laughed, it was cut short and self-deprecating, “I’m always chasing after boys that would never spare me a glance, it sucks but, I can’t fake attraction.” You sighed deeply, dragging out a confession that weighed you down sore and tired. “So I just stopped, no point in trying, right?”

Finally, you turned to him.

“Right.” He whispered to himself, an almost silent agreement as his brain went haywire. Sweaty fingers fiddling around themselves in his lap. Because, yeah, you are right. Steve looked at you and understood.

He swallowed down his pride, a ball of hope replacing it. “What if you did try, just one more time?”

The weight in the room was unbearable, you'd have better luck cutting the tension between the two bodies with a knife. A slow realization played on your face, you might as well be half scared, a buzz rising up your back. An unspoken understanding.

“Steve…” you said his name again, not followed by a giggle or snarky comment. It was barely above a whisper, your breath suddenly stolen from you.

“Would that be so bad?”

Your eyes found his, trailing up from where he slumped into your couch. His shirt bunched up in awkward places, the constellations of moles painted his neck and face, and the unruly brown hair from the day’s activities. Full of boyish charm and hesitant courage. You wanted to melt into him.

“I guess not…” You said, watching Steve finally move. Stepping up from his seat and closer to you, with every step closer your heart pounded, brushing your chest. Barely a foot stood between you, despite how the world seemed to be in slow motion, Steve wasn’t stopping. He couldn’t even if he tried. “Steve?”

Steve Harrington was going to die right here in Studio C of the Hawkins WSQK Squawk building if you kept up the way you were looking at him now. You are still sitting pretty in your chair, as he towered over you, a man possessed. Your eyes were wide, pupils dilated with hope. Just staring, searching.

“You gotta give me a chance or I’ll just embarrass myself.” He said, not even realizing his hand was rising to your face. Ghosting against your cheek, then you leaned in slightly, it was enough for Steve to finally cradle your soft skin. “Come on, just one chance.”

That tense rubber band that stretched thin between you two snapped, you were breathless.

“I’ll give you as many chances as you need, Harrington.”

It was a final spell of a confession before you rose quickly, almost dizzy. Finding Steve’s lips like it was second nature, he had stayed cradling you, guiding you once his body caught up with yours. It was electric, two buzzing bodies finally connecting. Leaning, melting. Both your hands grasp at each other's faces and necks, your fingers twisting in the strains of hair on the nape of his neck.

Steve swears he must have slipped and fallen in the hallway, died, and gone to heaven. Your lips parted for him and he didn’t think twice before swiping a lick in between your lips, he didn’t realize how hungry he was for you until now, maybe he could have guessed this feeling was incoming when he got a migraine thinking of you doing this with the metalhead.

But you weren't.

No, you were in Steve Harrington's arms after months of late nights in this studio. After being his sole escape from this whole fucked up world. ‘Cause Steve didn’t need to know these walls were soundproof to know everything went quiet when he was with you. You were the peace that settled after the dust, you were warm. You were the smell of nostalgia and lavender, cotton and sugar. You tasted like it, too.

“Tell me I’m wrong.” Steve parted from you, an audible click of your spit-covered lips, he felt breathless, wild. “That you don’t want this, you don’t want me, that I could never do it for you.”

It almost pained you to think Steve could ever believe that. “God—Steve, you are so, so fucking wrong.”

Steve literally shuddered, like a spike of cold air had run up his spine. But it was just you, grasping him and knocking him down all at once. You leaned back a few steps, leaning against the corner of the soundboard. Steve followed, kissing you again like you were his oxygen. Needy. Hungry. Pushing his body against yours, caging you in.

All Steve wanted was to be closer, because his tongue in your mouth wasn’t enough. His hands roamed and his knee slotted in between your legs. Pushing against your core, pulling a sweet, surprising sound from you. Vibrating his lips that lit a fire inside of him.

“Want you, Steve.” You breathed, “always have.”

“Yeah?” Steve couldn’t believe this, after silently and hopelessly pining for you. For it all to come to this so suddenly. “Tell me.”

You kissed him, pulling away just as quickly as you leaned in. “When I first met you, you and your stupid—,” you kissed him again, “messy hair and your.” Another kiss. “Charm that made me feel dizzy.” Kiss. “Your stupid blue jeans that fit too well and” another breathless kiss. “Your smile, these pouty lips-“ kiss. You kept your eyes on him now, “and the way you care for people when they aren’t watching.”

“Sweetheart..” The name left his lips like a prayer.

“Since the beginning I wanted you, I didn’t know how obvious I could make it… so I just assumed you weren’t into it… into me.”

Steve’s finger rubbed your cheek, he tried not to get too lost in your eyes, “Robin says I give you googly eyes.”

Your face scrunched up, “I used to think you were looking at me funny.”

“What?” Steve's face dropped at the information, like he was personally offended by your words. “No, oh my god, no, never.”

“Really?” You asked, unbelieving.

Steve didn’t respond, he didn’t need to. Only smiling at you, all giddy and full of nerves like a boy during his first kiss. Steve's hands held you steady as he brought you in closer.

Your legs intertwined as you leaned farther into the soundboard behind you, Steve’s leg slid up further, nudging in between your legs. A heat rose up you quickly, Steve’s hands still roaming further down, holding gently on your neck.

Maybe you leaned down first, or Steve's leg hitched up, you weren’t sure who moved first. But Steve's knee had pushed up enough to send a shiver up your spine, a surprised gasp of pleasure running from your mouth. You felt Steve smirk against your lips, kissing down your jaw and neck.

Then he did it again, rubbing his thigh against your sweatpants-covered core, the sweet spot that kept pulling sweeter sounds from you he had only dreamt of hearing.

“Steve..” you whined, lips brushing his messy head of hair as he found that ticklish spot under your ear.

“Yeah? ‘That feel good?” He mumbled against your skin, vibrations down to your thighs. “Just tell me to stop if that’s what you want, hmm?”

Steve hesitated for a moment to wait for your response, hands hovering above your waist.

“Keep going,” you ached for him. And Steve obliged, because he’s realizing he'd do anything for you. Absolutely ruined. And he was going to return the favor.

Steve’s finger found the skin underneath the hem of your tiny, tiny t-shirt. Spreading his grasp across your hips and stomach, wanting nothing but to feel you more. Pulling you into him, against him. Drawing more sounds from you.

You ached, you squirmed under his hold. Feeling the giddiness radiating off the boy like sunshine. Your hips bucked against his thigh, and an overly intense sensation struck you.

“Come on, sweet girl.” Steve cooed, and you practically melted into him. “Let me hear you, I always wanna hear ya’”

Steve's hands pulled you down again, guiding your hips to cross the larger part of his thigh, pushing you to slowly drag your covered and aching clit onto him. Giving you that permission to let yourself use him to feel good, to keep making noise. Steve wanted to drown in it.

“Mhmm,” you wined, a hitch in your throat as you kept moving your hips, Steve's hands practically doing all the work. “Ah—Steve, oh my—“

Steve swallowed your moans with another kiss, letting his hand reach further down, toying with the elastic waistband around your lower lips.

He needed you more than oxygen. Closer. “Keep going?” He said against your lips, pausing at your pants, because a part of him still felt like this was a dream, a sick joke. That you in his arms, literally aching for him, could never be real.

You nodded, pulling at his neck. Shifting your hips higher and Steve moved with you, one hand pushing past your pants and the other bracing hushed behind you.

With the make-out frenzy, both of you far out of mind, Steve's hand slips on some switch, some button, who knows. The loud noise or high-pitched guitar and fast-paced drums made you both jump, literally. You even yelped.

“Ah, fuck.” You scrambled to move off of Steve, the sudden departure from your body made him feel cold, but it was more than enough to watch you completely flustered and seemingly forgetting how to work your whole system. “Goddamnit, shut up!”

Steve was laughing, and by the time the shouting from your speaker turned off. You were too. Still practically on top of each other, you had turned back from pausing the disruption.

“Sorry…” Steve apologized with a boyish, lopsided smile. His hair a wild mess after what your hands did to him. His eyes wild, possessed by lust and darting to your every inch, he just wanted to soak in the sight of you and everything more.

You shared a look, and you both laughed. Steve's head falls into your chest, as you knock your head back to let out more giggles. Because, of course the exact makeout sesh you’d been yearning for would take place here, where you’d always imagined, just to be interrupted by an accidental switch on the soundboard. It was ridiculous, you couldn’t help but laugh, it was everything you’d ever wanted these past few months.

Steve's shoulders shook with joy, until you pulled him back up to face you. His irises were dilated and shining at the sight of you, satisfaction pained him.

“You wanna keep this going where Ian McKaye can’t interrupt us.” You asked, a slight bite to your lip after you looked down and still found yourself slotted into him. Like a perfect puzzle piece.

“I don’t even know who that is but, yes.” Steve grabbed you suddenly, taking you somewhere, anyway, you didn’t care. “Oh my god—yes, please.”

[rawkuna]

𝜗ৎ 𝓣UTORED, 𝓣OYED, & 𝓣OTALLY 𝓕UCKED !

𝜗‬ৎ‬┊pairings: camgirl!reader x select jjk men [college au]

❝ you join a discord study group to pass stats and accidentally discover it’s a porn server dedicated entirely to you—your tiktoks, your voice, your body, and the way you moan. anonymous classmates, TAs, and even faculty tip, dare, and compete for your attention, blurring the line between studying and being watched. you should leave… but the money’s good, the sex is better, and everyone on campus wants extra credit. ❞

𝜗ৎ‬┊warnings: 18+, smut/p with plot, chars unknown, voyeurism/exhibitionism, public play (lecture, library, etc), recording (consensual & anonymous), reader is desired by many, possessiveness/obsession kink, anonymous sex, casual objectification/slut talk, crack plot + chaos, mild stalking vibes (e.g., reader’s schedule being tracked), slut-positive, shame-negative tone.

𝜗ৎ‬┊kassie's note: first series kinda nervy </3

  ❑  PROLOGUE :: welcome to studybuddiez!

chapters tba!

taglist is open! leave me a comment if you're interested <3