warnings — MDNI, smut, p in v, unprotected sex, dom!peter, oral (r receiving), bondage (webbing), slight choking, drool/spit, edging, mocking/teasing, multiple orgasms, cream pie, pet names, vulgar wording/expression, peter gets a bit rough, porn w little to no plot. slight BND spoilers (?)
summary — you and peter have a complicated relationship. just [best] friends that fuck, even more now that peter can’t help himself when his arachnid levels skyrocket.
wc — 2.8k
a/n — this is my first fic on this account woooo! saw the movie last night and i feel like a feral animal. didn’t rlly proof read this so srry. entirely self-indulgent.
In the moment, you wouldn’t be able to describe how you got here. With your thoughts clouded, tainted and filthy, you found yourself underneath your best friend, his legs straddling yours with his knees dipping into the plush mattress on both sides of your hips. Tongues tangled together, you held the sides of his face, gently swiping your thumbs over his cheekbones as you relish in the feeling of his soft lips effortlessly aligning with yours.
With both of your legs being imprisoned between his, you took the advantage and began to gently graze your knee against the tent forming on his sweatpants, earning a soft moan from him in return. The moment of pure transparency made him feel vulnerable, and after a few moments of you gently repeating your movements, it took much strength for him to not succumb to your advances, gently grasping your legs to wrap them around his waist.
After that, there was no turning back.
Grabbing a free pillow from the bed with one hand, Peter wraps his opposite forearm underneath your lower back, lifting you to place the pillow on the mattress beneath you. With a soft gasp at the sudden movement, you realize what he's doing, ultimately lifting your lower back even further to help, your back arching against the bed. Once Peter has done so, he pushes you back down against the pillow, which noticeably raises you up just a little less than enough to be in level with him.
“Can I do it?”
Peter raises a brow, “Do what?” he inquires in a genuine tone, stroking himself slowly as to not disturb the tender moment. The two of you, tangled together fully unclothed, was not something Peter would have expected five months ago by a long shot -- but this wasn't the first time. Hell, he's lost count at this point. Thankfully, you've managed to keep your friendship strong with no strings attached.
Instead of answering, you take it upon yourself to wrap your fingers just above his around his length, gently pulling it closer to your core, ultimately forcing him on top of you. Peter easily catches himself, his hands landing on the pillow that rests underneath your head. He would have teased you for your impatience if it weren’t for the sudden doe eyes catching him off guard.
Of course, you knew he would melt and have to oblige.
You gently guide the tip to your folds, your eyes never once leaving his as he watches your lips gradually part open the more he fills you.
Fuck, Peter thought, though his facial expression remained clear. He knew you had him wrapped, and you knew too.
It wasn’t long before...
“I know,” Peter fake pouts, dipping his thumb between your teeth, feeling your tongue wrap around the pad of his thumb, along with a vibration of a muffled moan. His hips worked at a deep, meaningful pace. He wanted to make sure he felt all of you with each thrust, loving the way your eyes would cross ever so slightly when he’d bottom out, but yet he still managed to keep his pace slow and calculated. One side of his lips gently quirked into a smug smirk before it quickly fell back into focus. Peter softly pulls his thumb down, dragging your bottom lip with it.
The look of your swollen lips along with your gently furrowed brows was enough for him to start fastening his pace, each deep thrust of his hips against yours forcing your legs to lose balance around his waist. He feels your heels desperately digging into him, trying to stay in place but his force was nonetheless causing your legs to drop further with each movement.
“-m slipping,” you softly whine, your fingernails absentmindedly digging into his shoulders. The feeling of them combined with your heels in his sides were a clear representation of your attachment to him; no matter the challenge, you continue to hold on. Peter was always a challenge, and who were you to ever turn that down?
Sure, you were cold and reserved on the outside, preferring to preserve yourself for only those you wanted let in. Peter was, and has been, one of the few people to make your walls dishevel in such a way that he could have you this vulnerable in front of him. This vulnerable for him.
At first, it was hard getting him to open up to you, especially about the fact that he’s fucking spider-man. It seemed to only bring you closer — very close.
“I gotcha,” Peter softly whispers, assuring you that no matter how weak you become, he will be able to hold your weight. He wraps his hands around your underthighs, pushing them to force your knees to your shoulders as much as you could withstand. The angle was electrifying, unlike anything you had experienced before. He’s so fucking strong. The sounds of your cunt, along with your pitiful moans grew stronger the longer he held your thighs against your chest.
“G-onna cum… m’gonna cum,” you breathlessly manage to gasp as he rams into you, your cunt practically splashing against his bare thighs with each thrust. It was pretty obvious, but he loved when you’d tell him. The thought of feeling you cum around him made his skin feel hot, his grip on your thighs tightening so much you thought he might crush you beneath his fingertips.
“Oh yeah?” he softly instigates your orgasm, keeping his pace the same as to not disturb it. “I don’t know… I think you can hold on longer than that.”
A pitiful, desperate cry falls from your lips at his response, as you know fully well that he would be just as satisfied if you couldn’t hold out, but you wanted to try for him.
“F-fuck,” your chest heaves with a whine, your eyes screwing shut. “I don’t know if I can.”
Your moans continue with no particular end, your slick walls tightly clenching around him as you try to hold back, the rippling sensations gradually growing stronger. Your heart pounds in your chest as your eyebrows furrow tighter, your mouth hanging open and jaw trembling as you attempt to control yourself.
“You’re doing so good,” you hear Peter praise, intently watching your facial expressions and tightly closed eyes as your thighs tremble around him. Peter suddenly deepens his next thrust, ramming your sweet spot that was sure to send you over the edge. Your eyes fly open, landing right on him as you felt yourself begin to unravel.
“O-oh god,” you huff before warning, “I’m-i’m c—“
Quickly, Peter pulls his hips back, disconnecting from you. This was a complete surprise to you, since Peter had never ruined a climax for you before. Before you can protest, he firmly grabs your hips, twisting his wrists to easily flip you over. A whimper falls from your lips at the sudden change, falling into the bed with a ruffled thud, but you ultimately lift yourself onto your knees, lifting your ass just enough for him.
“My god,” Peter groans deeply but quietly, his grip on your waist tightening before he presses numerous wet kisses on the plushy skin on the edge of your lower back. Despite being frustrated, you knew he wouldn’t leave you like this, patiently anticipating his next move.
While your body continues to tremble in his hold, he rolls over onto his back, moving up the bed as to fit his face underneath your dripping slit, yanking your thighs down. You land perfectly on his tongue, with which he wastes no time swirling through your lips, collecting your arousal with a muffled groan. Although your face is further away than before, he can still hear your unfiltered moaning and whimpering as the trembling in your body grows worse.
You grip the pillow in front of you for slight stabilization, your knuckles turning white as they curl around the cotton. You couldn’t speak, overwhelmed with pleasure to the point where you were ready to start begging.
The room was otherwise quiet, the only light illuminating the room coming from the lamp next to Peter’s bed, and the city lights from the large windows.
“Can’t take it,” you manage in a weak whisper between your incoherent mumbles, knowing he wasn't able to hear you. “c-can’t take it.”
Peter could hear that you were speaking, but he couldn’t make out your words. Withdrawing his tongue from your clit, he asks, “What was that, baby?”
Baby. You shiver at the feeling of his breath against your swollen cunt. You try, you really do, to answer, but you couldn’t properly take control of your thoughts just yet, mustering a muffled moan in return. Peter hums, his cold fingers slipping up the sides of your bare thighs before landing on your waist. His tongue gently swipes up your folds one more time before firmly gripping your waist, lifting you to allow himself to slip further up the bed.
“Sit up,” he gently demands. You weakly push your arms off the mattress to sit up, your knees continuing to dig into the bed as you watch him move up into his new position. Now, you're straddling his lap, his cock resting against your inner thigh as he sits up with you, his mouth inches from yours.
He wastes no time connecting his lips with yours, sharing the taste of you on his tongue as it dips onto your mouth. His hands remain busy, gripping your waist with one hand as he uses the other to wrap his fingers around his cock. The unspoken action results in you lifting yourself up, his only focus now being on what you want most.
He gently pushes the tip past your folds, your desperate cunt practically sucking it in as you easily slip down, filling yourself completely as he watches. You begin to softly roll your hips, bouncing gently so that all that could be heard was his shaky breath, your desperate moans, and the sounds of your slick cunt accepting him inch by inch.
“Can’t even let me take my time,” he softly murmurs to himself with a raised brow, his sarcastic, blank eyes staring into yours. He wants more than anything to throw you back into your previous position and fuck you senseless into the mattress, but this moment is for you. Your grip on his shoulders tighten, your movements becoming faster as you feel your high building once again, desperately chasing it. He takes note of this. “Mm, getting close…”
To him, you’re an open fucking book. You couldn’t hear him, and if you could, you weren't paying attention. Your mind was lost in the feeling of him, the feeling that you only allow him to provide you.
Your whimpers and whiny moans grow louder, and you desperately wrap your arms around him as if you were seeing him for the first time in years. Raw cries escape your lips as you roll your hips faster, feeling your orgasm creeping closer and closer. Peter does the same, wrapping his arms around your frame, bear hugging you. Weakly, your chin takes place on his shoulder to rest, though your hips continue to move. Peter’s arms tighten around you and he lifts you slightly, his strength and the shift in position allowing him much more stabilization to start moving his own hips, thrusting them up to meet your movements.
“Oh fuck.. oh fuck,” you ramble in his ear, your muscles spasming. He feels the additional grip of your pussy as it tightens around him, your climax barreling into you. You don't warn him, your eyes rolling back, nails digging into him, desperately grabbing at his skin to hold onto him as he thrusts up into you. Your body jolts as you hit your peak, a string of pretty, pitiful moans falling from your lips as your orgasm strikes and slowly dissipates. Peter knows your body well enough to know you were cumming, that rhythmic flutter of your cunt quite familiar by now… but that didn’t stop him from thrusting even deeper.
His strength felt stronger, if it were even possible. More purposeful. You couldn’t see it, the way his eyes clouded with darkness, a darkness that had only started occurring just recently and would especially happen whenever you’d have sex. The feeling of you cumming around him was so overwhelming, so electrifying, that his arachnid levels would skyrocket. Peter’s sweet, coffee brown eyes were gone, now entirely jet black. It was as if black ink had spilled and spread so quickly, so effortlessly, that it would be impossible to fix the stain.
“Pete… Peter…” you weakly moan, chin still planted on his shoulder. “I can’t.. s’enough.. babe!”
You moan desperately, measly pushing his waist back as a reflex in response to the overwhelming sensations as he continues to hold you in a bear hug, thrusting into your wet cunt that’s practically oozing around him. Peter unwraps an arm from around you, using his hand to grab both of yours and plant them against your lower back.
thwip!
You tug, it’s not budging. Peter practically handcuffed you against yourself with his webbing, the wet strings giving slightly before becoming tighter the more you fight it. Your eyes roll back completely, your body shaking uncontrollably as he takes full control of you. You were fucked out. You knew fully well that you could use the safe word you’d made, but deep down, you didn’t want to. All you wanted was to keep feeling this fucking good.
You feel his arms wrap around you once again, the heat of his breath tickling your neck,
“You’re done when I think you are,” Peter grunts, his cock pulsing as your pussy continues to suck him in with greed. You feel your heart thud in your chest, his sudden gravely tone sending a shockwave down your spine. It’s happening.
With his arms still wrapped around you, he reaches up with one hand to grab the back of your neck, his long fingers making it to the sides of your throat. Pressing his fingers against the right spots, your moans grow louder and more pornographic than before.
“Listen to yourself… you really wanna stop?” Peter fake pouts in your ear, and at this point, a small dribble of drool is spilling from your lips, down your chin and onto his shoulder. He feels it instantly.
“You’re fuckin drooling,” he growls, his grip tightening around you, but not tight enough to completely restrict your breathing. You had never felt this fucked used before. The overstimulation was insane, sending shocks through your entire body, and you fucking loved it.
“More.”
Peter smirks to himself, gripping your throat tighter as your fingernails dig into his skin. “Like that?”
You whine, to which he mutters, “More what?”
Unable to respond, you roll your hips with his, chasing more friction. Getting the hint, he reaches down and yanks your hands off your back, ripping the webs with ease before he flips you onto your back, his right arm remaining underneath you while his other hand moves to tighten around the front of your throat. With the new position making it much easier for him to move, he lifts your lower back with his arm, angling you to aim much deeper than before, the pillow for that purpose before being knocked off the bed a long time ago.
You felt yourself gush around him at the sight of his eyes, at the sight of him taking you like a man starved. They were like a black hole you could get lost in over, and over. You felt as if the wind was being knocked out of you each time his tip would ram your cervix. You have not been this vocal before, not this loud. Peter didn’t mind it though, no. It surprised him.
“Please… can I—”
“I want you to,” he shuts down your inquiry with his answer before you have to muster your thoughts. Nearly instantly, your back arches, forcing your hips onto his to close any gap as your peak crashes. Your eyes blow wide and glisten with tears as you cum again, your mouth agape as your pussy spasms around him.
You squeak when Peter suddenly fastens his pace, teetering on the edge himself. Your nails grip at his biceps, taut and tense as he finally cums with a strained, pitiful grunt of your name. You feel him pulse inside you, each rope of cum gradually filling you as your eyes struggle to stay open. The sight of you is fucking intoxicating.
Peter shows you mercy, gently holding your hips and slowing his thrusts as you both ride it out, your body jolting in his hold. That sweet feeling of you cumming around him is torturous. He just couldn’t help himself.
Through hooded lids, you watch the black in his eyes dissipate, replaced by the usual warm brown you’re used to. Soft gasps fall with each jerk of your body, your focus slowly growing steady. Peter slowly pulls his hips back, his dick coated in his thick, viscous cum as he watches it leak out of you. Without another thought, he leans down and plants a soft kiss on your mound before trailing upward. Feeling the featherlight kisses he places on your stomach, Peter unravels his arm from underneath you.
You look up at him, lashes fluttering as you struggle to keep your eyes open. You want to speak, but your mouth fails you, resulting in a huff instead. Peter smiles at you,
pairing: peter parker x fem!reader, set after brand new day
summary: it's been a long time coming and you want nothing more than to jump peter parker's bones. or in other words, as charlotte york from sex and the city once said, damn it! I just really wanna be fucked, you know? just really fucked!
content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, no use of y/n, sweet (and spicy) lil. drabble, established relationship, fingering, light dom/sub undertones, leaving marks, peter fingers you from behind, cum eating, pussy slapping, peter being so gosh darn tooth rottingly cute ugh, not beta read
"This is what you wanted, isn't it? Just wanted to make a mess on my couch, get my fingers all filthy? For me to take it?"
You're gonna be in serious trouble, you think. Peter's fingers curl upwards, and your whines break off, broken and wanton and so delightfully needed. You can feel stray tears dripping down your cheeks, lashes wet from all the different sensations Peter's taking out of your body. "I–I think I'm gonna come."
"Yeah?" He leans back in, not quite kissing her, eyes dilated in the dark of his apartment. "You think you deserve it?"
Nodding, head shaking up and down frantically. Why yes, absolutely, Peter Parker, you do deserve it.
You had been on a total of three dates with one Peter Parker so far. Far too impatient for your own good, so you'd suggested his place this time, low-key, no pressure, you'll bring the wine, and he'd said yes fast, too fast, in a way you'd have found suspicious from anyone else. But not Peter.
You wanted, so badly, horrifically, to get your hands on him. You had wanted this since date one, technically, possibly since before date one, and you had spent the intervening weeks channeling that want into research and preparation, the same way you channeled everything, because if you were going to lose your mind over a boy you were at least going to do it efficiently.
First, you wore kitten heels for the occasion even though this is definitely not the right occasion, but you couldn't help yourself. They were the ones that made your ass perk up just-so and led to three seconds of Peter eyeing your legs up and down as you passed him into the elevator, and you even wore perfume that a very reputable and frankly life-changing article on The Cut described as the closest thing to a pharmaceutical aphrodisiac you can legally buy at Sephora. He had leaned over in the cramped elevator car and looked at you, wonderstruck and in that low, boyish voice of his, "You smell really good."
And you were, as of nine-forty-two p.m., extremely fucking frustrated, because none of it, not one single thing you've done, had resulted in the guy making a move.
The movie's some spin-off Star Wars movie that Peter had frantically explained before chucking it into his bootleg streaming site, laptop flickering slightly as he plopped next to you on his couch. God yeah, Rogue One was just so severely underrated, he says as one hand brushes against your shoulder, and you'd nodded along like you had any context for what he was talking about, and you'd had to press your knees together like that would help. You've already decided you're going to watch the other seven (eight? nine? you should probably know this) before you see him again, so that next time you can argue back instead of just making the interested noise you've been perfecting for the last twenty minutes.
You end up abandoning the heels.
That was his idea, technically, a stammered offer somewhere around minute fifteen—you can, um, if your feet hurt, I don't know if they hurt, forget I said anything—that you'd accepted with a swiftness that surprised you both, unbuckling the little metal straps and easing your feet into his lap like you'd been waiting all night for permission.
Now his hand's on your ankle. His thumb does this thing, tracing little spiderwebs around your lateral malleolus, and you're so fine. So okay with this progression, totally.
"You can talk during it," he says ten minutes later when your feet, have decidedly fallen asleep, not looking away from the screen. "I know people say you're not supposed to talk during movies, but I like—I mean, only if you want. You don't have to. I just talk during movies, but not in like, a mean, dickish way like some people do in theaters, not that there's anything wrong with that, it's just a little disrespectful, but not in my apartment, so if you were gonna say something you don't have to feel—"
His thumb then drags one slow line up along your instep, absent, unthinking, entirely unaware of what it's doing to the rest of you, and something in your chest pulls taut like a wire about to snap.
"Peter, that's not it. That's not—it's just—I've never done this," you say, quieter now, and it costs you something to say it, you can feel it cost you something. "Any of it. I don't have a… single fucking clue. I don't know how this part goes."
"Neither do I."
"I know you don't, that's the problem, we're both just sitting here being—" You cut yourself off. Start over. "I'm not gonna say it. You have to do it."
"Do what?"
"Peter."
"I don't know what you—"
"Take what you want," you say, and it comes out low, and a little wrecked, and entirely unlike you. "For the love of God. Just—take it. Please. I'm not saying it again."
That's how he ends up fingering you over the arm of his couch, half-suspended and scrambling for purchase. A mean, relentless lover is most definitely not what you pegged Peter Parker to be. The boy who was flustered and uncertain just a mere ten minutes ago shouldn't be wrapping a stray arm around your waist to pull you closer, practically making you fuck yourself against his fingers. The boy who's now making embarrassing huffs of breath escape your lipgloss-stained lips and wrenching the oxygen out of you.
You know, for a fact, that Peter would never, ever let you drop, but the look on his face when you turn your head over your shoulder makes you think that the ground might be a bit safer for you.
God, you've never even been fingered from behind before but the angle of it, the relentlessness, it makes you feel so thoroughly used, dizzy from the speed and the sheer force of him taking you. Combined with him dipping his head down, sucking harsh love bites into the swell of your ass, and you think you may as well have just lost your mind.
The movie's still playing when his hands force your legs wider apart, his hushed "that's right, hips up for me," lining up at the same time as Vader chokes and dismisses Director Krennic, breath hitching. You're so proud of Peter, he had mentioned how cool this scene was, and he's so focused—your cunt squeezing tight like a vice grip on his fingers. Your whole world is spinning, just an endless cacophony of Peter, Peter, Peter, Peter—and oh, oh god, when his thumb swipes over your clit, you realize that that that's all you've been saying.
"What is it? What do you need, sweet girl?" He bites harder at your neck, filing the way you twitch and heartbeat flutters uselessly. You're gonna be all marked up tomorrow, but you couldn't care less. The pleasure and pain felt like an electric current through your body, sending phantom shocks down your spine.
"M–More, please—Peter, oh, Peter—"
"Pretty girl needed someone to take care of her, huh?" His brows furrow in mock concern, even though his hands make no move to slow down. Your thoughts trail off, wondering if Peter could take care of you just like this forever. You think he might, he could, he should. You wouldn't mind. You'd let him keep fucking you until your voice ran raw, keep his fingers wet and pretty for as long as he wanted, just one orgasm into another.
"Someone to spoil you," his tongue drags from your cheek, up to your lower back, "someone to give it to you every day," up, and up, and up your spine until his breath bears down on your neck. "I can be that for you, right, baby?"
Your whining hits a fever pitch, blissed out and on the edge of your orgasm. "Yes, of course, mmm—just don't stop."
Peter slaps your clit once, twice—fuck, and your cunt squeezes one final time around his fingers, and you're coming, your hand closing into a fist on the chenille fabric. It feels like the rest of the room is just pure nothingness, just static and buzzing and the feeling of Peter's hand coaxing you through each wave.
"You got my hand so wet, honey," He tuts, and oh. There was no reason for that to be as hot as it was, and you're sure he can feel it too, the way you clench down on his hand and pull him further into you. You've always been told you respond like a dream. "Such a good pussy. You're going to feel so good around my cock."
You turn onto your back when Peter gently pulls his fingers out of your cunt, still breathless and heaving from the attack on your senses and nothing ever could've prepared you from the sight before you. He examines his fingers in the light, the way they glisten–god, did you really get that wet—a small smile playing at his lips—and sucks those very fingers into his mouth.
Maybe it's only been seconds, or maybe it's an eternity, but you sit there like that, watching him in that entranced way of yours. He doesn't break eye contact with you once. It's filthy. You think you could be raring up to go again just from the way he looks at you.
Peter hums contentedly. The sound goes straight to your cunt. This boy's gonna be the death of you.
The laptop stirs back to life at some accidental brush of the trackpad many, many moments later, Rogue One resuming exactly where you left it, some spaceship still doing something important that neither of you had ever actually been watching.
"Oh man, we missed the ending," Peter says, squinting at the screen and dragging his mouse down to try and wind it back.
"Really, Peter? You just made me come and you'd rather I care about the ending?"
"You're gonna care. I'm gonna make you care. I have so many more things to explain to you."
"I'm sure you do."
"Is that—was that sarcastic? I can't always tell with you."
"Fine, we can watch the movie," you say, and press your smile into his shoulder so he can't see it, and he does, mostly, in between turning to look at you every ninety seconds like he still can't quite believe you're still there, and you let him check, again and again, all night, because you're checking too. "Go ahead, play it back."
+ from mara
this was short and sweet! i haven't written anything in over a year, but after seeing tom holland's rock hard abs grace my screen, i simply had to dip my toes back in. it's been hard getting back on the horse (that is, the metaphorical writing horse) and i fear you guys will most definitely be able to tell but i hope you guys like it! IM SO SCARED but okay stream audrey hobert and support your local nurses <3
summary: Peter Parker knows something inside him is changing, and it gets harder to fight it every night. Then there’s you, who happens to be the one it won’t leave alone.
note: i am so hungry, and i hope this will also make you all full of peter. reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!
Walking home alone with too much alcohol in your system makes the city streets feel a little less lonely at night. You stumble slightly over the curb while you check your phone for the time. Spiderman is out there swinging between the buildings somewhere above you. You know he exists without ever trying to follow where he goes. Seeing him on the news occasionally is enough for you. You keep walking down the sidewalk until footsteps drop from the rooftops above you. Tonight feels like an ordinary walk home before someone bumps right into you. Peter is fighting bad headaches that won’t go away no matter what he tries to do about it. His arachnid genes are acting abnormally lately and pushing past his human side in ways he can’t control. He spends his nights searching for a cure because the animal instincts keep taking over his thoughts. Stress makes the biological changes worse tonight since his mind is already exhausted, and seeing MJ kissing another man at her housewarming party earlier today makes it worse.
Watching her with someone else triggered something feral inside him, and it doesn’t help that no one remembers who Peter Parker is anymore. His arachnid instincts take over as he drops over the street before he bumps right into your path. Organic web shoots directly from his wrists instead of mechanical shooters before it wraps around your waist. He grabs you with him to swing around until both of you are up on a rooftop. You don’t know Spiderman personally for him to do that so you think you are in danger as he lands on the roof. The spinning motion, together with the drinks in your stomach, creates a terrible feeling by the time you reach the top of the building. You immediately bend over to throw up all the alcohol in your stomach right onto the roof. He watches you puke before he lets out a loud laugh. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand while he just looks at you and shakes his head.
That first night didn’t end up so terrible because Spiderman brought you home safely after you threw up on the roof. He even apologized for grabbing you off the sidewalk before he left you outside your building. Running into him once feels like a simple coincidence when you think about it the next morning. He knows he doesn’t mean to keep doing it, but he saw you walking home alone weeks later and decided to give you another ride across the city. Happening twice is already something unusual, yet a third or fifth time tells both of you that this is no longer an accident. He can’t control the urges yet since he hasn’t managed to suppress his arachnid genes. Everything that happened on that first night opened his eyes to the idea of trying again. He isn’t actively searching for another girlfriend, though he feels open to the possibility now. He doesn’t understand why his arachnid side feels so protective over you whenever you are out late at night.
He isn’t stalking you by any means, yet his senses alert him whenever someone gets too close to you on the street. He has no idea why his biological instincts react so strongly whenever you walk home alone after a night out. The urge to check on you keeps happening without any clear explanation. Maybe he even programmed your details into E.V so his tech tracks you whenever the cameras catch you walking by yourself. E.V notifies his mask display whenever you leave a building late at night so he can make sure the streets are clear. He tells himself it’s just a safety measure to keep you out of trouble. You never actually saw each other face to face during any of those times E.V watched over you from above. He waited up on the roofs while you walked down the pavement. You only knew he was around when he decided to drop down to pick you up for another ride home. Those repeated trips across the city happened several more times over the past few weeks.
Neither of you talks about why he keeps showing up whenever you are out late. His arachnid side feels satisfied whenever he drops you off safely at your front door. He never fails to bring you home after you finish drinks with your friends. Tonight tests his patience because the alcohol in your system makes you act way too clingy. You wrap your arms around his shoulders instead of holding onto him normally while he takes you above the street. You press your face into his neck right over his collar. He tries to ignore the way you rub your nose against him as he moves between the buildings. “Don’t move around so much up here,” he grunts while he checks the distance to the next roof. You ignore his warning before you inhale the scent of his suit right against his throat. Your mouth opens against the material as you leave small pecks along his neck. He tenses up when your teeth bite down on him through the fabric.
His senses are already too sensitive tonight, so your mouth against his neck distracts him. His web misses the next building after your teeth catch him by surprise. “F-fuck- what are you doing?” he curses as he brings you closer against his chest. Both of you almost fall before he shoots another web to find support and avoid touching the ground. “You smell good,” you mumble against his throat while your teeth nip at him again. He manages to get both of you across the rest of the blocks without falling again. He lands on the floor of your balcony before he sets you down. You refuse to let go of his shoulders even after your feet touch the ground. His arachnid side reacts badly because your mouth keeps trailing over his neck. “Stop biting me,” he warns you as his hands hold your waist. He backs you toward the wall of your apartment while his breathing turns ragged behind his mask. “Mmm- no,” you say before you tug him closer by his shoulders.
He looks down at you with his chest heaving while he tries to control his urges. He raises one arm while he keeps you against the wall of the balcony. A line of web shoots from his wrist toward the knob of your balcony door. It sticks to the handle before he pulls his arm back to slide the door open. He wants you inside because standing out here makes everything too complicated. You ignore the open door while you keep your arms around his shoulders. Your hands leave his shoulders before you reach up toward his mask. You try to pull the red fabric up over his chin so you can look at his face. His right hand leaves your waist before his fingers wrap around your wrist to stop you from lifting it higher. He pushes your hand away from his face while he looks down at you. “Don’t do that,” he warns you as he shoves your wrist back down between your bodies. You try to reach for the mask again with your other hand, but he blocks you easily.
“I can’t let you see me,” he tells you while he keeps your hands away from his head. The alcohol in your system makes you stubborn, so you push your hands against his chest in frustration. You hate that he stops you every time you try to see who hides behind the mask. “That’s not fair,” you complain while you try to wiggle your wrists away from his fingers. He keeps you against the wall while your feet kick slightly against the floor. “You always pick me up and bring me home, but you won’t even show me your face,” you whine as you bump your forehead against his shoulder. He watches you throw a tantrum before he finally lets go of your wrists to guide you through the open balcony door into your living room. He swats your hands away whenever you try to touch his chest again. He walks you backward across the floor while he watches your face. “You’re too drunk tonight,” he tells you as he tries to keep some space between your bodies.
You ignore his warning before you wrap your hands around his arms. “I’m very aware of what I’m doing,” you complain while your fingers caress the fabric of his sleeves. He tries to shake you off, but you refuse to let go of him. You look up at him while he keeps walking you backward across the room. “Don’t you want a reward for keeping me safe?” you ask him while your hands move up to his shoulders. He shakes his head immediately before he tries to remove your hands from his suit. “You need to sleep,” he answers while he pushes you toward your bedroom hallway. You hate that he keeps rejecting you after everything he did for you tonight. You stop walking backward so you can look up at his face. He pulls the bottom of his mask up just enough above his chin to leave his lips exposed so he can catch his breath. You stare at his mouth while he tries to get you to move again.
You lean forward quickly to try to kiss his lips. He catches your shoulders with his hands before your mouth can touch him. He pushes you back away from him while he turns his head to the side. “No,” he warns you as he holds you at arm’s length. You stumble backward into your bedroom while you look at him in disbelief. “Why won’t you let me thank you?” you whine before you try to step toward him again. He acts quickly by shooting a thick line of web around both of your forearms to bind your wrists together behind your back so you stop grabbing him. You stumble back a step until the back of your knees hit the mattress, and you sit down. His hands reach for your ankles before he starts taking your shoes off your feet. He tosses your shoes aside while he tries to ignore the way you keep staring down at him. You spread your legs wider apart on the edge of the mattress to get his attention.
He tries to ignore what you are doing while he drops your second shoe onto the floor. You lift your right leg before you place your foot right on his shoulder. You use your leg to pull his shoulder closer toward the bed. He shakes his head at you while he kneels on the floor between your knees. “Why are you acting like you don’t want me?” you whine while you pout down at his mask. He lets out a loud sigh before he leans forward between your knees. He drops his forehead right against your thigh with his shoulders tensed up. The mask is rolled up above his chin so his mouth is uncovered. His exposed lips touch the fabric of your pants while he rests his head on your leg. “You’re making it really hard for me to behave tonight,” he warns you as his chest rises against your knees. You feel his breath through your pants while he keeps his forehead on your thigh. He tries to control his arachnid side before he does something he can’t take back.
You feel the web that binds your arms together behind your back. The alcohol makes you bold, so you lean your chest closer toward his face. “I wouldn’t mind if you tied the rest of me up with your web,” you tease him while you nudge his shoulder with your foot. He lifts his head from your thigh to look up at your face. His jaw tightens after he hears what you want him to do. “Jesus- don’t give me ideas like that,” he mutters before his hands reach up to hold your hips. He pulls you closer to the edge of the mattress until your thighs surround his chest. He refuses to back away from you now that you invited him closer. “I can’t do much with my arms tied up anyway,” you tease him while you look down at his exposed mouth. He looks at your face before his hand reaches up to grab your ankle. He removes your foot from his shoulder and sets your heel down onto the floor between his knees. “Are you really going to leave me here like this?” you ask him before you nudge his side with your leg. He shakes his head as he kneels on the floor in front of you.
“This is some freaky shit you’re doing tonight,” you joke while you watch his jaw tighten. He keeps looking at you like he is trying to figure out how far you are going to push this. “Don’t make this harder than it already is,” he warns you while his jaw tightens behind his mask. He keeps his head down as he tries to ignore the way you lean toward him. “If you won’t untie me, then at least help me get my pants off,” you complain while you tilt your chin down at him. You don’t really care about changing your clothes tonight. You only want to make it look like you need help so you can see how far you can push his patience. He looks down at your lap before his thumbs touch the waistband of your pants. He knows you are trying to mess with him, but he refuses to back away from the bed. “Come on, do the belt first,” you chuckle while you wiggle your hips slightly on the mattress. He looks up at your face while he kneels on the floor between your knees.
You watch him hesitate before he reaches for the front of your waist. Both of his hands move to the belt around your pants so he can undo it for you. He removes the belt from your waist. He drags the strap free while you keep your attention on his exposed mouth. He drops the belt onto the floor before his hands return to the sides of your waist. “You took the belt off, but you aren’t going to unzip them?” you complain while you shake your head at him. You start pulling your wrists apart behind your back while he kneels in front of you. “What the fuck is that about?” you ask him while you try to push your hips forward on the mattress. You manage to tear through some of the web around your hands even though it doesn’t come off all the way. You keep pulling your wrists apart while you wait for him to answer you. He hears the web tearing behind your back while he kneels between your knees. He doesn’t try to stop your hands from moving because he is just letting you have your fun.
He ignores what you are doing behind your back while his thumbs move to the top of your pants. “Just stop moving for a second,” he tells you before his fingers pop the button open. He pulls the zipper down until your pants open wide at your waist. You spread your legs wider on the edge of the bed so he can take them off. You wait for him to lean closer, but he surprises you by moving away instead. He crawls backward on his knees two steps away from the edge of the mattress. He pushes your knees together with his hands before he grabs the waistband of your pants. He pulls the pants all the way down your legs in one motion until they slide off your ankles. You smirk down at him because he stripped them off you so easily. “You can look,” you tease him when you notice him turn his head to the side. Your smirk grows bigger as you watch him avoid looking at your red panties. “I’m trying really hard to be responsible here,” he mutters while he looks away from you.
He keeps his eyes away from your waist while he drops your pants onto the floor beside him. “You don’t always have to be the good guy,” you tease him while you wiggle your knees on the edge of the mattress. You pull your wrists apart harder behind your back while you wait for him to look at you. “They match your suit,” you point out as you lean your chest forward. He turns his head back toward you before his eyes drop down to your red panties. He doesn’t mean to stare, but your words make him look anyway. “I knew you wanted to see,” you laugh while you keep working your wrists apart behind your back. He shakes his head at you while he kneels on the floor between your feet. “You’re not helping my case here,” he groans before he looks up at your face. You stretch the last strands of web behind you while you watch him hesitate. “Take them off,” you tell him as you tilt your chin down at him.
His jaw tightens while he tries to ignore what you want him to do. “It won’t hurt anyone if you do,” you add while your shoulders twist on the bed. His human side wants to back away so he doesn’t take advantage of you. His arachnid instincts fight harder against him because every second near you makes him want to stop holding back. He keeps his mouth shut while his hands hover over his knees. You force your wrists apart until the web snaps behind your back. You bring your arms forward so your hands sit in your lap. The web still covers your fingers and wrists, but your arms are finally free. You grin down at him while you show off what you did. He scoffs at your face because you look so proud of yourself. “You know I let you do that, right?” he asks you while his mouth almost forms a smirk. You ignore his excuse before you rest your hands against your thighs. “I’m stronger than you thought,” you boast while you look down at his exposed lips.
He shakes his head while he reaches forward to touch your knees. You lift your hands to grab his mask again, but he tilts his head back away from your reach. “Keep trying that, and I’m going to tie you to the bed,” he warns you while his hands move up from your knees to your waist. He looks up at your face before his thumbs hook over the waistband of your red panties. “Yeah? With your web?” you smirk down at him as you open your knees wider against his sides. You ignore what his hands are doing at your hips before you grab the bottom of your shirt. You pull the top over your head in one motion and toss it across the bedroom floor. Taking off your shirt leaves you sitting on the mattress in only your underwear and your bra while he kneels between your feet. “Jesus- I told you to stop making this worse,” he mutters while his jaw clenches below the rolled fabric of his mask. You reach your hands behind your back to undo the clasps of your bra so you can take it off too.
He raises his right hand before a line of web shoots from his wrist right onto the center of your bra. He yanks his arm backward so the web snaps the clasps open behind you and pulls the bra away from your chest. He catches the bra with his right hand and throws it into the corner of the room. “I told you not to be stubborn,” he warns you while he drops his right arm back to your waist. You cross your arms over your chest to cover yourself because you didn’t expect him to strip you like that. Your face heats up while you look down at his exposed mouth in surprise. You look up at his eyes through the mask and think they look like they are turning black. You blame the dark room and the bad lighting for making his eyes look so strange. He knows it isn’t the lighting because his arachnid genes are fighting harder to push past his human side. His animal instincts want to take over now that you are sitting unprotected in front of him.
Both of his hands return to your hips before his thumbs hook into the waistband of your red panties. You push his hands away from your waist before you crawl backward toward the middle of the mattress. He gets up from the floor while he watches you get to your feet on the bed. You hook your thumbs into the sides of your panties to push them down your legs. You kick the red fabric off your ankles before you throw it right at his chest. “I can take them off myself,” you tease him while you stand naked in front of him. He catches the underwear with one hand before he lets it drop onto the floor. He tries to avoid looking right between your legs, but his arachnid side takes over. He raises his wrist before a line of web hits your stomach. He yanks his arm backward to pull you off the mattress and into the middle of the bedroom. The web lifts you up so your feet leave the floor. “What the fuck- are you serious right now?” you laugh while you kick your legs in the air.
He ignores you before he lifts his other wrist to send another web around your right forearm. He attaches the other end to the ceiling so your right arm stretches above your head. He casts more web across your waist before he connects the ends to the walls to keep you in place. The web holds you high enough so your hips align with his waist. You yank your free left arm around to see what he will do about it. He releases another line of web around your left wrist before you can swing at him again. He pulls your left arm upward before he attaches the end to the ceiling on the opposite side of the room. Both of your arms spread wide open above your head while the web wraps down to your elbows so you can’t pull your hands down. “Are you going to fuck me like this, spidey?” you tease him while you try to wiggle your hips against the web. He watches you test the hold before he shakes his head at your consistency in trying to get into his pants.
“You wanted me to tie you up,” he grunts before he sends more web across your chest and hips. He attaches the ends to the walls around you until you have nowhere else to go. Your legs dangle in the air while your feet hover above the floor. He aims his wrist at your right leg to put web around your thigh before he lifts your knee up to the side to connect the end to the wall. “Like what you see?” you tease him while you look down at where his eyes drop. He ignores your joke before he raises his left wrist to release more web around your left calf and ankle. He pulls your other knee upward and attaches that web to the opposite wall so your legs spread wide apart. The web bends your knees back until your feet hang high off the bedroom floor. Your entire body hangs in the center of the bedroom right at his hip level with your knees bent back. The web covers your forearms before it wraps around your waist to hold your body up in the air.
Your bent legs hang open so your chest and your cunt are exposed to his eyes. He steps right between your spread knees while he looks down at your waist. You can’t move your limbs away while he stands right in front of you with his mask rolled up above his mouth. “You’re not so talkative now,” he mutters while he looks at your face. You try to wiggle your hips against the web, but it holds you tight in the air. His suited hands reach toward your thigh where the web wraps around your leg. His hands trail slowly over the web while you watch his mouth open slightly. “What’s wrong, spidey? Are you going to leave me here like this?” You laugh as you push your hips forward. His hand leaves your thigh before his palm slaps hard against your exposed cunt. “Ah-! F-fuck-” you gasp while your thighs flex against the web. He watches you react to the slap while his head tilts to the side. “I told you to stop testing me,” he warns you before his hand rests against your inner thigh.
He lifts his left hand between your legs before he presses his covered palm right between your legs. He rubs his palm over you while you try to push your hips forward to meet his hand. The web around your waist holds you in place so you can’t grind against his palm. “Is this what you want?” he asks you while his fingers trace over your wetness. You nod at him while you pout down at his exposed mouth. “You can’t tie me up like this and not give me anything,” you complain as your knees pull against the web. He hums at your answer before he rubs his palm harder against your cunt. “Nnngh-” you gasp while you try to close your legs, but the web keeps your knees apart. He watches your mouth open while he keeps working his hand between your thighs. You try to move your hips again, but the web holds your waist in the air. “You’re really asking me to do this?” he asks you while his teeth clench below the red fabric.
He slows his hand down between your thighs while he waits for your answer. “That’s what I’ve been trying to get you to do all night,” you answer while you look down at his face. He stops rubbing your cunt before he pulls his hand away from between your legs. He takes a step back from your feet before he turns around so his back faces your body. He reaches for the shoulders of his suit and starts pulling the fabric down his chest. You watch him peel the top half of the suit off his back while he stands in the middle of the room. “What about the mask?” you ask him as he pushes the suit past his waist. He keeps his back turned toward you while he steps out of the bottom half of the suit. “The mask isn’t coming off,” he tells you while he drops the suit onto the floor. He wears only his boxers and the red mask over his head before he turns around to face your spread knees. He brings his right hand back between your legs without the suit in his way anymore.
He brushes his middle finger down your folds while his thumb presses against your clit. You bite your lower lip and try to wiggle your knees, but the web around your hips stops you from moving closer. He raises his left wrist and shoots another band of web around your right thigh to stop you from moving around. “Ah-! Why did you do that?” you whine as the web wraps tight around your leg. He ignores your complaint before he slips two fingers inside your cunt. “You look adorable tied up in my web like this,” he tells you while he watches your mouth open. You try to push your hips forward to take more of his fingers, but the web holds you back. “Yeah? Adorable enough to actually fuck?” you tease him while you look down at his face. His lips curve up into a smile below his mask before he pushes his fingers deeper inside you. “Nngh-! F-fuck-” you gasp as his fingers move inside your wetness. He watches your chest rise and fall while he keeps his hand between your thighs.
“You’re so desperate tonight, you can’t even wait five seconds,” he mutters while he curls his fingers inside your entrance. He pushes his hand deeper between your legs while you look down at his mask. “You’re still holding back on me,” you complain while you try to move your knees against the web. He steps closer between your spread legs and brings his face right next to your neck. His exposed lips press against your throat before he speaks against you. “I’m only doing this for your own good,” he whispers while his fingers work inside your cunt. It’s been years since the last time he touched someone like this or actually had sex with anyone. That’s the main reason he’s been holding back as much as he can all night. His arachnid side wants to swallow his human genes so his animal instincts can take control over his actions. He knows he’s on the edge of breaking if he keeps touching you like this.
He pushes his fingers deeper between your thighs while he listens to your breathing change. You squeeze your cunt tight around his fingers while you look at the top of his head. “So do you want me just to moan spidey all night since I don’t know your real name?” you taunt him as you try to move your hips. He pushes his thumb hard against your clit before he drags his tongue across your neck. “Haaah-! m-mfffh-” you gasp as his mouth leaves your throat before he lifts his head to look at you. He licks his own bottom lip while he thinks about whether he should tell you or keep quiet. He doesn’t stop moving his fingers inside your cunt while he stares at your face through the mask. You look up at his covered face where only his mouth shows below the red fabric. “Don’t you want to hear me moan your actual name?” you ask him before you squeeze your cunt around his fingers again.
You can’t push your hips forward to get his hand deeper because the web holds you in place. He sighs through his nose while his jaw moves under the mask. “Peter- you can call me Peter,” he mutters while he curls his fingers inside you. There are thousands of guys named Peter in New York, so you wouldn’t know who he really is anyway. He knows that if he ever takes the mask off to show you his face, then he will just have to keep you by his side so you never tell anyone. You hum when you hear his name while he keeps moving his fingers between your thighs. Your clit starts to throb against his thumb, so you close your eyes and let your mouth fall open. “Mmn- ahhnn-” you breathe out while your head tilts back against the air. He lifts his left hand away from your side and brings it up to your chest. His palm cups your exposed breast while his fingers roll your nipple between them.
He squeezes your breast while his other hand works inside your wetness. “You really know what you’re doing with those hands, Peter,” you tell him while you open your eyes to look down at his mask. He scoffs under his breath because he knows you’re just trying to talk him into fucking you now. Hearing his name from your mouth sends a rush straight down to his cock, so his arachnid side reacts before he can stop it. An embarrassing but small amount of web shoots out from his wrists. “Looks like someone else can’t hold back anymore,” you tease him while you laugh at the white string on his wrist. He pinches your nipple hard before he drops his hand away from your chest. “Ah-! sh-shit-” you gasp while he reaches his hand down to the front of his boxers. He grabs his cock right through the fabric while he stares up at your mouth. “See? I told you that you were just as desperate as me,” you laugh while more slick coats his fingers inside your cunt.
He sighs through his nose before he slips his hand under the waistband of his boxers. He strokes his cock inside his shorts while he watches you try to close your legs. “Stop playing around and take those off,” you complain while you watch his hand move under the fabric. You try to wiggle your hips forward to reach him, but the web keeps you in place. “You want it so bad? Come over here and get it,” he teases you while he keeps his fingers working inside your wetness. You glare up at his masked face because your arms are stretched above your head. “Oh, that’s right... You can’t move because you’re tied up,” he mocks you while he curls his fingers inside your cunt. He watches you try to pull your knees together against the web. “Nngh-! p-please-” you whine out while your hips try to push against his hand. He never stops pumping his fingers between your thighs while his other hand strokes his hard cock inside his shorts.
You shake your head at him because he won’t do anything besides finger you. It frustrates you that you can’t even wiggle your knees away from his touch. “Poor baby... Are you getting impatient?” he laughs while he looks at your pout. He pushes his fingers deeper between your wet folds while he watches your mouth open. “I hate you so much,” you mutter while your cunt squeezes around his fingers. He smiles below his rolled-up mask before he slows down his hand between your legs. “Mhm, you’ve been good enough for me tonight,” he tells you before he pulls his hand out of your cunt. He lifts his wet hand up to his mouth to lick your slick off his fingers. He watches your cunt clench around emptiness while he uses both hands to push his boxers down his hips. He kicks the shorts off his feet away from him across the bedroom floor. You watch him stand naked in front of you with only the red mask covering the top of his head. “Never fucked someone like this before, Peter?” you taunt him while you look down at his cock.
You arch your back against the web while he steps closer to your spread thighs. “Never had someone tied up like a toy without their legs around you?” you ask him while your knees pull against the web. His exposed lips curve into a smirk because he knows you always have to be a smart-ass. He steps closer to your spread legs before he slips his right hand through the web to hold your leg. He uses his free left hand to guide his hard cock right between your thighs. He rubs the head of his cock up and down against your wet folds without pushing inside you yet. “Hah- wait- P-Peter-” you gasp out while he slides his length over your clit. He looks down at your face while you try to push your hips forward against the web. “Shh- quiet down for me,” he whispers before he starts to push his cock slowly between your lips. His left hand guides him inside until his length is deep enough to fill your cunt before he drops his hand and stops pushing forward.
He brings his hand up to your face while you tilt your head to rub your cheek against his palm. “Mmf-” you whine while you lean into his hand. He watches you through the white lenses of his mask while you close your eyes to bite your bottom lip. He looks at the way your face reacts to him opening you up, and he likes seeing you tied up for him. He pushes his hips forward again to slide the rest of his cock inside you. You breathe through your open mouth once he pushes all the way inside your cunt. You open your eyes to look at his covered face because you want to see what he looks like right now. Your eyebrows knit together while tears start to gather in the corners of your eyes. “Oh god- haaah-” you moan while you feel him push your cunt wide open. He squeezes your thigh before he leans forward to rest his forehead against your neck. He starts thrusting his hips back and forth while the web holds your body up.
“You take me so well,” he grunts against your throat while he picks up his pace. He brings his hips back so only the tip of his cock is inside you before he slams himself forward to bury himself deep again. You try to move your knees, but the web forces your legs wide open. “P-peter… please, let me see you-” you beg him while he thrusts fast and hard inside your cunt. He ignores what you asked before his teeth bite down onto the side of your neck. “I told you no- jesus-” he mutters against your throat while his hand squeezes your thigh tighter. He moves his other hand from your cheek to the back of your head so he can tangle his fingers in your hair. He forces your head back while he keeps pumping his cock in and out of your cunt. You cry out against his shoulder while his hips slap against your thighs with every thrust. His lips trail up from your throat to your jaw before he presses his mouth against yours. You close your eyes while he kisses you hard enough to force your teeth apart with his tongue.
He bites down on your bottom lip before he sucks it into his mouth and lets it go to spit right onto your lips. “Mmmph- you’re so-” you moan after he does that, and his tongue licks your lips. He pulls his face back to look at you before his right hand reaches down to snap the web around your right thigh. He pulls your freed leg up against his side so your knee rests beside his hip. The new position lets him push his cock deeper inside your cunt while he holds you close against his body. He watches your face through his white lenses while he keeps moving his hips forward. His left hand rests tangled in your hair behind your head to keep you in place. Your cunt clenches tight around his cock, and his fingers pull back on your hair hard enough to make your scalp burn. His shaft throbs inside your wetness while he watches your mouth fall open. “Do you want your other leg wrapped around me too?” he asks you while his hips slam into your thighs.
You nod at him while you try to move your left knee against the web. He keeps holding your right thigh with his right hand while he raises his left wrist to shoot two fresh bands of web over your arms. It gives your arms more support in the air before his left hand snaps the web around your left calf. He guides your left leg over his waist so both of your thighs wrap around his hips. He grabs both of your hips with his hands while you float in the middle of the room. “You know how good you look right now?” he asks you before he thrusts deeper inside your cunt. His fingers dig so hard into your hip that it hurts your flesh like he wants to devour you. “Nngh-! o-ow- Peter that hurts-” you complain while your hips rock against his cock. He looks down at your face while he slows down for a second. “It’s okay, you’re okay,” he tells you while his thumbs push harder into your waist. He leans in closer to your ear to bite it, but it’s just an excuse to be closer to you.
“You’re going to take it like a good girl,” he whispers before he lifts your legs off his waist and puts your ankles up onto his shoulders. He looks down between your bodies to watch his cock slide in and out of your wet cunt. His enhanced hearing picks up every single noise in the bedroom while he speeds up his thrusts. He listens to the wet squelching of your cunt and the loud slap of his hips against your thighs. Your ragged breaths are loud in his ears while he pushes his cock all the way to his pelvis. He holds your ankles on his shoulders while his hips work faster inside your wetness. His fingers caress up and down your calves while he thrusts deep inside you. You get closer to the edge every time he pushes all the way in. You don’t tell him you’re about to cum, but he feels the way you pulse around him. The wetness drips down his shaft while you squeeze him tight. You need to hold onto him while the pleasure builds, so you tug hard against the web around your arms.
“I need you- p-please let me hold you,” you whine while your toes curl against his shoulders. He turns his head to the side to bite down hard onto your calf. He pulls his cock back until only the tip is left inside you before he slams all the way deep again. He fucks you so hard that the web around your body starts to break. The broken pieces weigh you down, but the rest of the web holds you up in the air. He moves his hands away from your legs to tear right through the bands around your waist. His arms wrap tight around your body while he brings you against his chest. “I need you right here with me,” he grunts before he buries his face into your neck. He thrusts deep enough to reach that spot inside your cunt, and it makes you cum instantly. “Nngh-! o-oh god-” you moan while your wetness coats his cock. He feels you cumming around him and his arachnid instincts take over his head. His enhanced strength makes it effortless for him to walk forward and break right through the remaining webs to carry you.
You wrap your arms around his neck before he walks both of you toward the bed without ever pulling his cock out of you. He gets onto the bed so he can lay you down on the mattress and hover over you. Shredded web clings to your arms and your thighs. “You came around me so fast,” he mutters while he looks down at your face. You nod at him before he slowly starts to thrust inside your cunt again. Your hands leave his shoulders to grab the bottom edge of his mask. You push the fabric all the way up over his head to see his face finally. It scares you because his eyes are pitch black instead of human. You open your mouth to react, but he grabs both of your wrists with his hands. He pins your arms down hard onto the mattress beside your head. “Come on- you wanted to see me so bad,” he smirks while he stares down at you. You try to pull your hands out from under his palms, but he keeps smirking at you.
“You’re not even human- you’re a d-demon,” you gasp while you stare up into his black eyes. He ignores what you called him before he thrusts his cock deep into your cunt. “Ahhhnn- f-fuck-” you moan out loud even though you just tried to insult him. He watches your mouth fall open while he keeps his body pressed over you. “Shh- it’s just me,” he mocks you with fake sympathy while he holds your arms down on the bed. He raises his wrists to shoot web right over your forearms to bind them to the bed so your arms are spread wide open again. “You have such playful hands,” he tells you before he lets go of your wrists. He gets up onto his knees between your spread legs before his left hand grabs your waist and his right hand reaches up to grope your breast. “Are you scared of me now?” he asks you while his fingers squeeze your nipple. You shake your head quickly on the pillow, but he smirks down at you from his knees. “You really should be,” he tells you while his right hand squeezes your breast. He pushes his cock deep into your cunt, and his fingers play with your nipple.
His left hand slides down your side to reach between your legs. You try to twist your bound wrists against the mattress before his right hand leaves your chest. He raises his right wrist to shoot an extra layer of web right over your hands. “Stop fighting me, or I’ll shut your mouth for you,” he warns you while his left hand finds your wet clit. He pinches your clit hard enough to make you whine. “Ah-! nn- please-” you beg him while you shake your head on the pillow. You don’t want to piss him off because he keeps staring at you with those black eyes. You spread your thighs wider for him in response, and he takes a deep breath. “That’s a good girl,” he tells you while a smirk forms on his face. He slams his hips forward with more force, and his left thumb rubs back and forth over your clit. He doesn’t care that you just had an orgasm minutes ago because he keeps rubbing exactly where you are most sensitive.
“Mmf- hahh- it’s too much-” you cry out while your cunt clenches around his cock. His right hand goes right back up to your chest to grab your other breast. He squeezes the soft flesh while his hips slap against your thighs. “You look so fucking perfect like this,” he grunts while his thumb flicks over your tight nipple. You want to touch his body badly, but the webs keep your hands pinned to the bed. “Nngh- let me hold you- p-please, Peter,” you beg him while you twist against the web. He looks down at your wrists, and he keeps thrusting into your wetness. “If you want to touch me, then just break free,” he challenges you while he keeps his hands on your body. You stop struggling because you know exactly what he will do if you manage to escape. “Nn- you’d just tie me down again,” you complain while your hips rock up to meet his thrusts. He chuckles above you before he leans all the way down over your body.
He pushes his mouth right against yours for a quick kiss, and he trails his lips down your neck. He moves over to the breast that he neglected earlier to drag his tongue right across the tip. “Oh god- haaah-” you moan out loud while his wet tongue licks your nipple. He moves his face back a few inches to look at you again. “You can try to break free all you want because I don’t bite,” he whispers before he drops his head back down. He wraps his mouth all the way around your nipple, and he bites down hard on the sensitive peak. “F-fuck- ahhhnn-!” you scream out while your back arches off the mattress. The bite makes your cunt squeeze tight around his cock. You thrust your hips up against him while he sucks on your breast. He grunts out loud before he shoves his hips forward to push you deeper into the mattress. He thrusts his cock as deep as he can go while he keeps his teeth pressed into your nipple. His mouth works over your bud while his left hand rubs your wet clit.
His right hand squeezes your other breast before his cock slams deep into your cunt. Having all his attention on your sensitive body pushes you over the edge again. You tear your wrists right through the webs to free your hands from the mattress. You throw your arms around his shoulders so you can tangle your fingers into his hair. You drag your nails down his back while your hips thrust up to welcome every deep pound inside your cunt. “Fuck- yes- mmn- right there,” you moan out loud while you arch your back off the bed. He sucks hard on your breast to take whatever he can get from you. He slams his hips forward faster to match your needy movements. The thought of breeding you takes over his head. He wants to pump all of his cum as deep as he can reach inside your cunt. He feels his balls tighten because he gets closer to cumming with every hit. “I’m going to fill you up so much,” he grunts against your chest before he bites your nipple one more time.
He lifts his mouth from your breast to leave wet kisses up your neck until he reaches your shoulder. He sinks his teeth right into the curve of your shoulder before he pulls away to look at your face. He watches your eyes roll back while his left hand pinches your clit and his right hand pinches your nipple. He rubs his thumb faster over your wetness while he shoves his cock all the way to the base. “You feel so fucking good around me, don’t you?” he praises you before he leans all the way down. He pushes his mouth against yours to force his tongue past your lips. You open your mouth for him so he can taste you while his hips slap against your thighs. “Mmmph- ahhh-” you whine right against his mouth while you kiss him back. The urge to cum gets too close for him to think straight. He doesn’t even notice that his fingers slow down on your clit or how his thrusts become sloppy.
He can feel his cock throb deep inside your wetness. He knows he won’t last another minute before he cums inside you. He bites down hard on your bottom lip until he tastes blood on his tongue. He keeps his teeth there the exact moment his cum starts shooting deep inside your cunt. “Mmf- f-fuck-” he groans against your lips while he empties himself inside you. He leans his forehead against yours while his hips keep moving. He feels how close you are to another orgasm, so he slows his movements down to be gentler. You push his face away to tug on his hair until he opens his eyes. You look up at his face to see that his eyes are normal again. He realizes he is finally back to normal. He moves his hand away from your clit to rest his palm on the mattress beside your neck. He continues to roll his hips between your legs before he leans his forehead against yours again. “I- I’m sorry,” he whispers over your mouth.
You close your eyes to caress his back while you listen to his heavy breaths. “Why are you sorry?” you ask him while your hips move with his thrusts. He takes a moment to catch his breath before he answers you. “I was too rough earlier, and I wasn’t myself,” he mumbles right against your lips. Hearing that makes you bite your bottom lip before you grind your hips up against his cock. You breathe hard against his mouth to share his air before you lean up to kiss him. “I can handle you just fine,” you tell him between soft pants. He moves his face away from yours after he hears that. He wonders if someone can actually take that side of him without getting hurt. His left hand squeezes your chest gently while his cock pushes deeper inside your cunt. He closes his eyes as he feels the wetness coating his shaft. He wants to give you a second orgasm, so his hand balls up into a fist to twist the bedsheets beside your head.
He takes his time to slide all the way out before he pushes back in. “Haaah- oh god- yes,” you whine out loud while your cunt squeezes his cock. You cum hard around him, and he throbs inside you the exact second he feels it. He drops all his weight onto your chest to hide his face in your neck. “That was my first time letting that part of me out,” he whispers against your collarbone. You trace your nails over his shoulders to comfort him. “Let’s hope it was worth it,” you tease him while you wrap your arms around his back. He shivers against you, and his cock twitches deep inside you. He drags his teeth over your collarbone before a ragged exhale leaves his mouth. His body melts completely against your chest, and he refuses to pull out. You let your fingers wander down his sweaty spine while he nuzzles your neck. “More than worth it,” he mumbles back.
↳ Warnings/Themes: Mature (🔞). Smut. PWP. Unprotected P in V. Spread Eagle. Not-proofread. Dry humping.
↳ Pairing: BND!Peter Parker x F!Reader
↳ Words: 2853
↳ Summary: Your boyfriend returns from patrol beaten and bloodied and with a new attitude.
☁️: Walked out of the movie wet as hell. The scene that this picture is from... yeahhhh. So, here we are. First time writing for Marvel / Spidey so be nice pleaseeee. There's no real spoiler warning, as the fic is based on the image from the trailer. ❤︎
General Masterlist here. Peter Masterlist here.
Through the noise of the New York night moving below, something hits your bedroom window hard enough to rattle the glass and drag you out of your sleep. Another loud tap follows before the room falls quiet again. The traffic outside carries on as though nothing happened, and the silence inside your room stretches on long enough that you being to wonder if you'd imagined it.
Still caught somewhere between sleep and consciousness, you instinctively reach for your phone. It takes a couple of seconds of blinking against the harsh glare of the phone before the numbers come into focus. 03:17. No missed calls or texts.
You let your head fall back against the pillow, your eyes already drifting closed as sleep begins to pull you back under again. It's only then, just as you're comfortable, that the next sound tears through your bedroom.
Your bedroom window, old and creaky, is slid open. The curtains stir as something, a big something, slips past them. There are no footsteps or creaks of the floorboards to prove it happens, just the rustle of the curtains as more breeze flies through.
"...P–Peter."
The name slips from your mouth before your mind has even fully caught up. It has to be him, he's the only person reckless enough to slip in at three in the morning, and the only one who would consider your fourteenth story window as a perfectly reasonable front door, despite having a key.
There's no response, so you reach for the lamp. A soft, yellow glow fills the bedroom, your eyes taking another second to adjust before immediately settling on the wall.
Peter's halfway up your bedroom wall, crouched close to the ceiling with his weight resting on his feet. He has one hand on the opposite wall, as if he needs it to keep him balanced.
He's still not turned to look at you, opting to watch the city through the gap the wind creates in the curtains. One shoulder in his suit has been ripped almost clean off, exposing bruised skin beneath streaks of drying blood. There's more dried blood along the side of his face, disappearing beneath his jaw and into the collar of his suit. Fresh crimson still trickles from a cut above his eyebrow, his curls clinging damply to his forehead.
You chew your bottom lip as you take him in. It's become the norm for him to crawl through your window at night after patrol, but never this late and never looking this banged up. Dating Spider-Man has its perks but now it brings you an uncomfortable swirl in your stomach.
"Pete?"
When he finally looks over to you, the breath in your throat catches. His eyes, usually so soft and brown when they look at you, are gone, replaced by darkness. You blink a few times, as if that will reset your sight and give you something more familiar.
It doesn't and your brow furrows. You've spent enough time looking into Peter's eyes to know every shade of brown that they could be in a different light. This wasn't that. The colour has been swallowed whole, replaced by a black glossy enough to catch the light from your bedside lamp.
Over time, you've learnt to just roll with the things that happen to and around Peter. Now, for the first time really, he's beaten, he's bloody, his eyes are pitch black, and he just stares at you.
It's probably one of the most unsettling things you've ever seen, which makes it deeply irritating that your first coherent thought is still 'God, he's attractive'.
"That's... new," you finally say.
His head tilts ever so slightly, the movement smooth enough that it reminds you he isn't entirely human, as if him clinging on your wall without a regard for gravity wasn't reminder enough.
"What happened, handsome?" You ask softly.
One corner of his mouth twitches at the nickname, it's barely a smile, but it's enough to loosen the knot that has been tightening in your chest from since you turned the light on.
"Suit yourself," you say.
The silence feels wrong on him. Usually, Peter feels silence the way other people breathe. He apologises, makes terrible jokes, and talks himself into circles until you have to interrupt him just to get a word in. Even after the worst patrols, he somehow finds the energy to ramble on about the criminal who threw a microwave at him or complain about New York's pigeons' vendetta against him.
Tonight, he just watches you. His gaze follows you as you kneel beside the bed and pull out the first-aid kit you stashed there for times like this. It tracks the movement of your hands while you sort through gauze and antiseptic, placing them on the bed.
"Come here."
This, he obeys immediately. Usually there's some sort of protest, "I'm fine." "You don't need to fuss." "It's not even my blood."
But today, he walks down the wall, each step carrying him lower until both feet settle quietly onto the carpet. He walks the short distance over to you, stopping close enough that you can smell the rain and city dust beneath the metallic tang of blood.
There's tiny cuts scattered across his jaw, already looking like they're healing. "You really got beat up, huh?"
He nods in response.
"The other guy look worse than you?"
Another nod.
"Good."
It's your turn to watch him, your eyes trailing down from where his hair is still damp to the way his muscles bulge out of his suit. A hum of approval slips past your lips, and the corner of Peter's mouth lifts again.
"Missed you." His voice is rough, quieter than usual, as though he hasn't spoken in hours. Knowing Peter, that is unlikely.
"I missed you too." You reach for the antiseptic. "Suit off, sit down."
It's a routine you've done time and time again. He's out of the suit in no time, then on your bed in only his boxers. His chest and stomach is no better than his face, scrapes and bruises littered across him.
You kneel between his open legs, soaking a cotton pad with antiseptic before lifting it towards the cut above his eyebrow. "This is going to sting."
Normally, he'd flinch before you'd enough touched him, already complaining about your bedside manner despite being the one who'd shown up at your window and begging you to take care of him with those puppy-dog eyes.
But, the antiseptic touches raw skin without so much as a wince or bad joke about how it hurts worse than anything he fought as an Avenger.
The furrow in your brow deepens for the second time today as you carefully clean his face. "Peter."
His black eyes flick briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes. "What?"
"You've been staring at me for the past... I don't know. Like five minutes."
"I know." Is his simple response.
There's something in his voice that somehow manages to sound not quite like Peter but also entirely like Peter at the same time. A hint of brown peaks through his eyes as you study him.
You find yourself looking away first, pretending to concentrate on cleaning the cut along his jaw even though you've already wiped it clean.
When your thumb accidentally brushes against the corner of his mouth, any hint of brown disappears, replaced by pitch black again as there's a faint hitch in his breath.
The effects of his reaction rolls through your body in a way that you're not sure you can admit out loud. Although he doesn't show it, he's probably in pain, and the worry you'd had initially is very quickly being replaced by a burning desire.
"I think we're done."
You stand to throw the used cotton aside. The moment you try to leave, warm fingers close around your wrist. It's not tight enough to bruise, but it's enough to stop you in your tracks, to stop you from even thinking of pulling away.
The tug on your arm is done with hardly any force at all, but it still has you tumbling forward. Your hands land on his shoulders to steady yourself, and he lets go of your wrist only to settle one hand against your waist.
Lifting you with ease, he puts you on his lap.
For a brief second, he looks almost puzzled by the contact, as though some part of him is only catching up to what the rest of him decided several seconds ago.
As your fingers trace down the lines of his chest, over the faint bruising, his eyes drop to your chest, watching how your chest begins to rise and fall faster as your heart thuds in your chest.
His nipples are already erect, so perky and tempting and you can't help but slide your thumbs over them. It's as if the touch sparks something within him, his hands tighten on your waist, drawing you closer until there's barely any space between your bodies.
The streets of New York sound even more distant as the sounds of ragged breathing fills the room, it's all consuming and desire pools in your stomach without even being touched.
"Pete," you moan, and the restraint snaps.
Peter's hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you down to crash his lips to yours. It's not really a kiss, it's too messy and too desperate, and he groans in your mouth as your teeth accidentally catch the cut on his lip. Still, he doesn't pull away. In fact, he craves more.
His hands run over your back and then down to cup your ass, tilting your hips forward in an attempt to press you harder against him. He hums quietly against your mouth, the sound vibrating somewhere deep in his chest.
Somehow, he calms down enough that his lips move against yours in a way more resembling real kiss, his tongue sliding over yours. The motion has heat prickling under your skin and a throb blooming between your thighs. Your nails scratch at his back, adding to the collection of marks there.
Without breaking the kiss, Peter eases you both backwards. You barely notice you're being moved until you suddenly feel him, all of him, press against you. He arranges you so he's flat on his back, your knees on either side of his hips.
The thin fabric of your panties is damp in a way that you're sure he can feel through his boxers. He's done nothing so far to warrant that.
"Fuck," you groan against his mouth as you shift against him. The friction sending little sparks of pleasure through you, but not enough to satisfy the ache.
He pulls back just enough to look up at you. You could always tell what he was thinking through his eyes, but they're still black, probably darker than before if that's possible. But, the expression on his face gives you all the reassurances that his eyes can't.
"My senses are going crazy." It's the first sentence that was more than two words he's pulled together all night, so you sit up straight, looking down at him. He closes his eyes, drawing in a deep and ragged breath. "Fu-. You smell so..."
The praise went straight to your core, more wetness dampening your panties and Peter whimpered.
He didn't open his eyes immediately, taking another long, shuddering breath of air as if your scene was an intoxicant he couldn't get enough of.
Shifting in his lap, you grind down against him with as much pressure as you could manage. His hands on your hips twitched, his fingers digging into your skin with enough pressure that you knew it would bruise tomorrow. Good.
His eyes lock on to yours, the void in his gaze terrifying in a way that only made you ache more. "I can hear your blood rushing. I can feel... no, I can smell how warm and wet you are."
Leaning forward, you drag your chest against his bare skin until your noses almost brush.
"So, then you know I'm ready for you." You kissed the bottom of his jaw, where a bruise has formed. "I'm begging for it." Another kiss and shift against him. His full body tremors underneath you. "I need you."
Before you can blink, his hand flies up to wrap around the back of your neck, and then the room spins. Peter's over you in an instant, pressing his erection against your core.
There's a wet patch on his boxers where his precum has pooled and each roll of his hips coats his boxers as it glides over your damp panties.
"Fuck... Pete."
Your nails find their way to his back again, leaving him with marks that you know he'll appreciate in the mirror in the morning.
Peter whimpers, hair flopping over his face and eyes half-lidded as he moves faster against you. You reach up, thumb flicking over his nipples in time with his grinds against you. Electricity runs through his veins at every wipe.
"I-I'm not- I'm close already," he stutters, his dick twitching in his boxers.
"But I want you inside of me," you all but whined.
"Okay, yes."
If you weren't as aroused as you are now, you would have laughed at the unnecessary acrobatics as he jumps back to pull your panties off in one swoop. The cold air hits your soaked folds, and his throat bobs as he watches the way it glistens in the light.
"Hurry up," you begged, legs closing slightly. It was a silly thing to feel so self-conscious in front of the man who's been between your legs more times than you could count, but he's also not seen you this desperate before.
He stands to pull his boxers down, a soft moan escaping his lips as the fabric catches on his sensitive tip. He turns to look at you as you swallow hard. His dick is beautiful, slightly curved and thick in a way that fills you up completely every time. It's flushed a pretty pink at the tip. Your tongue moves in your throat, craving the feeling of how heavy it would feel on you.
Settling between your legs again, Peter spreads your legs wide. He rubs the tip of his length through your slick folds, his precum and your arousal mixing. He uses the tip to circle your clit with extra pressure, and you cannot help the grind of your hips.
Peter taps his dick on your clit once, then once again, running it through your folds again.
Your hands hook under the backs of your thighs, pulling them to your chest and exposing yourself to him. "Peter, please."
"I'm sorry, baby," he coos.
Just the tip is eased past your hole, and it's enough for your mouth to go slack, eyes rolling back as the stretch burns so well. He continues to push in slowly, face scrunched as your walls wrap around him like a specialised glove.
Every ridge, every vein, and every pulse drags hits against the walls of your pussy. He fills you up completely, thick and veiny, and neither of you move for a moment, too lost in the feeling.
"Won't last long," he grits out.
Sweat already beads at his forehead. Sex with Peter is usually a stamina war, he goes rounds and rounds before even tiring. But whatever's happened to him has heightened his senses in a way that he cannot yet control, the feelings overwhelming him to the point of almost overstimulation.
"That's okay, take what you need."
He begins to move, pulling out so just the tip is left in before pushing back forward. He finds the right angle immediately, hitting against your spot and making your toes curl.
Without missing a thrust, Peter grabs hold of your ankles, using them to spread your legs further. The new angle has you both sighing, moans mixing in the room with the sounds of his skin clapping against yours.
"Feels s'good, s'tight," he groans. "Touch... self."
Three of your fingers immediately find your clit, circling with the pressure that you know you like. It only takes a few tightly pressured circles for the first waves of your orgasm to shake through your body.
Peter watches your body arch as your orgasm hits you in full force. You clench around him and that combined with the pure ecstasy on your face has him burying himself deep inside of you, giving you a few more frantic thrusts before he's whimpering and groaning, his nerve endings going haywire.
Seconds later, he's shooting hot, ropey cum into you. He falls forward but keeps his body hovering over yours. Your hands cup his cheeks, pressing kisses to his face as you both come down from your highs. He mumbles praises to you between kisses, making your heart squeeze.
"Feeling better, Pete?" You ask.
"Yeah, thanks to you," he sighs. He sits back on his heels, still buried inside of you.
As you watch him, his eyes slowly clear of the black, his soft brown eyes finding yours.
If you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment, ask, reblog etc. it means a lot x
summary: when your upstairs neighbor, spider-man, had begun to experience bizarre side effects to his arachnid DNA taking over, he fought to suppress it. you encouraged the idea of him letting go and seeing what happened, knowing he would always be peter. for months, he didn’t even entertain the thought, not willing to 'become a monster'. today? today he was a bit more susceptible.
written with something’s off with peter parker dynamic written in mind, but by no means a required read before this one
wc: 5.3k
cw: BND SPOILERS!!! nothing monumental to the storyline, and i would argue nothing that wasn’t mentioned in the trailer, but the descriptions of The Spider™️ are very much written and talked about in the context of the film. read at your own discretion for those who have not seen it.
actual cw: !!MDNI!! smut (p in v), vivid spider-like descriptors, dubcon and bdsm elements (absolutely everything is consensual, but in peter’s current state, he is not “himself”, which therefore makes the consent dubious): bondage/restrained by webs, slapping (but you hit peter 🤭), choking, a dash of fear play and a touch of some primal/prey descriptors going on. dacryphilia, mean dirty talk by peter that also has a dubcon vibe, finishing inside, minor subspace mention, Def domdrop mention for peter, and probably more. jesus christ, let me know if i missed anything.
also a gross overuse of italics and bold. title is from 'my strange addiction' by billie eilish
don’t like, don’t read! enjoy my little freaks!
two years ago, your neighbor, you supposed, moved in to the apartment's storage loft right above you. peter parker, he had introduced himself as, was a rather shy, reserved guy for someone who created an entire new list of expectations for the upstairs neighbor archetype.
a year and ten months ago, peter parker was a frequent weekly guest for tuesday dinner and switch tournaments. what had started as a knock on his door and some of your grandmother's brownies had evolved into peter spending hours losing to you on mario kart over bowls of bland spaghetti and spongebob mac and cheese.
a year and eight months ago, spider-man swan-dove through your window instead of his on accident, mask stripped before he knew better.
a year and a half ago, peter parker had managed to become the person you trusted most in this life. and in a measly six months, you had become that for peter in return. he opened up to you about the deaths of his aunt and tony, how he'd lost his friends - fuck, his whole life - to the spell.
and after about a year, though he'd never admit it, you could tell he was happy to have a "guy in the chair" again. to have someone in his headset, someone to patch him up after a rough night with scorpion. suddenly, peter wasn't so alone. he had someone who knew him as well as he knew himself, someone who - while you didn't get it necessarily - was the only one in the world who finally knew he fucking existed again.
which is exactly why you also knew about the headache's peter had been getting more and more over the past few months.
you were the first person he ran to when they started, collapsing on your bedroom floor in tears as he tugged at his curls for relief from the pounding. he was begging you to make it stop, curled in on himself like, well... a spider.
the first time was the worst of them, mostly due to not knowing what was going on. but after decorating your room in a thick layer of web (despite not having his web-shooters), it was clear this was outside your basic first-aid training. that didn't stop you from helping how you could. in that moment, and beyond.
you attended professor banner's lectures with him, taking whatever notes you could understand. you stayed up late into the night with him, acting as his assistant as peter worked up in his loft on getting to the bottom of whatever the fuck was happening with his own DNA. he jokingly called you "Dum-E" once, and was quick to backtrack as he saw bewilderment flash across your face. he apologized and rambled on that it was a good thing, tripping over his words to explain himself, though the hurt in his eyes when telling the story told you it wasn't a time to push.
all of this to say, you knew that something about the arachnid DNA was evolving, and going fucking haywire in the process. which is exactly why, when you heard a thunderous crash and sharp curses from peter in the loft above you, worry immediately flooded your system.
you bolted up the stairs, the obscene noises coming from peter's apartment growing louder as you approached his door. you knocked rapidly, calling out his name as you did.
another loud crash sounded, and you heard peter howl. "uhh, not right now! not a good time!"
you huffed. "yeah it doesn't seem like a good time! let me in, parker!"
peter went to respond, but was cut off by his own pained groan, and a worried whine left your own lips in reply. he deserved his privacy, hell, he deserved his own autonomy, but your concern overrode all ethical dilemma as you heard his knees hit the floor. hard.
thank fuck peter never locked his door.
you crashed into the loft, stopping dead in your tracks as you took in the state of peter's apartment. there was webbing everywhere. it covered the ceiling and his furniture, splattered over the windows which caused the light to scatter in awkwardly. you could only describe the state of his webbed bed as a nest. there was a PC monitor on the ground next to his desk that looked like it had been torn in fucking half. in the left most corner, there were handprints in the exposed brick on the wall from where peter had tried to catch himself before hitting the ground below where you saw him now.
peter was hunched over in a similar position you had seen him in that first time, limbs curled in on himself as he gripped his head, no doubt pounding like a motherfucker. he was facing away from you, but his shirt was ripped off, showing off just how pale he looked. a thin layer of sweat glistened off his skin, droplets forming and almost looking sticky. peter was shaking and breathing heavy as you approached him.
you had seen him like this before. it hadn't been this bad in a while, but you had been there for peter through it before and you could do it again. you had seen him when everything got too loud and he started to shut down, something else fighting to take over. that was the entire point of the inhibitor he had been working on. to suppress whatever the fuck this was.
you had pushed back initially, playing devil's advocate to encourage him to let it happen. to let the spider in. prove to himself that he was still peter parker when spider-man took over. after seeing him in this much pain and discomfort enough times, you stopped entertaining the notion.
because seeing him like this? was heartbreaking. you knew just how much everything was hitting him right now. how every sense was stabbing at him individually, how each breath you took was a knife to his eardrums. so you approached cautiously, keeping a step or two away and knowing not to touch him right now.
you met him with a hushed voice. "peter, hey. it's just me."
he flinched at your whispers and you cringed, feeling nauseated knowing it was your voice that hurt him. "let me help, okay? how can i help right now? do you need me to grab your-"
"no," he rasped out. his voice was deep, in a tone you hadn't heard from him before. "no, i'm not kidding. you need to fucking go."
"pete, i'm not-"
"no!" peter's voice boomed throughout the loft as he screamed your name. "i don't fucking care what you think right now!"
"parker," you went to scold, but he cut you off.
"i cannot get this fucking inhibitor to calibrate, and i-i.. fuck, i'm not myself right now. you need to go." his voice cracked on the last word, like he was trying to hold back tears. a moment ago, his voice literally shook the building. now, it just sounded broken.
you stood your ground. "peter, i'm not leaving you. don't do this alone."
his fist slammed into the floor in front of him, shattering the hardwood. as if it were fucking glass, splinters flew around him like shards of glass snowing in the air. peter held onto the edge of the newfound hole in the ground while trying to recenter himself, his grip on the floorboard literally causing the wood to disintegrate into dust in his hands.
you heard him fucking growl at you, and while you still weren't afraid of him, part of you was a little grateful peter was still facing the other way as you felt your cheeks heat up at the outburst.
"do you not see that i fucking have to?!" peter screamed into the corner, dust and loose grout crumbling from the ceiling at the sheer strength of his voice. you could see his back expanding and inflating as he desperately tried to suck in breaths, his many muscles flexing around his ribcage, and-
okay jesus, maybe not the time.
you sighed, shaking your head and taking another step closer. "peter-"
"fuck, get out of here! i don't want to hurt you!" he pleaded, still trembling and pulling at his hair.
you took a step back to look over at his computer, noticing his vitals freaking out on one monitor as the other was hooked up to some homemade tech he had running sequences on the inhibitor. EVIE was working with the same desperation that peter was oozing, already on trial #392. you looked back to the corner where he was still hunched in pain, and decided with unwavering finality that you were not leaving him alone during this.
walking back over, you crouched down to brush his shoulder with your fingertips, hoping to ground him with a singular sensation. he caught your wrist before you could even bother.
"i said. don't."
peter finally looked up at you for the first time, and your heart dropped to your stomach.
a lot about peter had begun to change during his "molting process" (as you referred to it). his strength had grown expotentially -- so had his spidey-sense. even the organic webbing, which was brand fucking new.
you hadn't seen his eyes go black like that before.
you stared into his fully darkened eyes, hoping the shock wasn't as evident in your own as you knew it was. hoping the tinge of something else in your eyes wasn't as evident as you thought it was. you flicked between his deep glare and his hand on your wrist as you regained your composure.
"peter. i'm not leaving you. i'm not scared of you."
he laughed. peter parker honest to god laughed at you, as he kept a firm grasp on your wrist and held your gaze.
"you fucking should be."
before you could blink, peter launched upwards, fucking jumping from his spot on the ground as shoved you against the wall. hard. despite the aggressive action and your back slamming against the brick, his hand landed behind your head to cushion the impact. the rest of you still hit with enough force that the wall cracked behind you, dust from the concrete swirling in the air.
you coughed hard, though, whether that was a result of the dust or the grip of peter's hand on the base of your fucking neck, it was hard to tell. he stared at you for a moment, black eyes darting up and down your body as he tracked your every movement. every rise of your chest, every twitch of your lip as you wheezed through his grip.
peter looked at you like you were his prey. like you were a fly that had been caught in his fucking web. you tried not to be as turned on as you were.
his eyes flickered slightly towards his hand on your neck and he loosened the grip, though still not letting you go. he regained a bit more of himself, a bit more of peter, as his shaking hand kept you pined to the wall. his voice betrayed the stone cold look on his face, trembling as he told you: "clearly, you should be".
peter didn't miss how your eyes jut down to his lips before hitting him with a rattled but firm: "well, i'm fucking not."
he smirked at you and let you go fully, stepping back to analyze as you took a moment to catch your breath. he drank you in, sizing you up before letting out a deep chuckle. before you could look up at him, both of your wrists were webbed to the wall behind you, pinned over your head as your back was once again pressed against the hard brick. peter closed in on you, boxing your frame in against his own. he pressed against you, getting in your face. literally breathing down your neck.
"no, you are. just a little," he growled in your ear. "but i think you like it."
you felt how fucking hard peter was through his juicy sweatpants, felt just how fucking big he was pressed against your hip. this was not a side effect of the arachnid DNA that either of you had seen in the last few months. or at least, nothing that peter had mentioned. come to think of it, why would he? it's not like he felt the same way.
you were snapped out of your thoughts as peter fucked sniffed you. you shook off the self-doubt as you took stock of the man in front of you, restricting himself to the point of physical pain right now as he caught whiff of your arousal. consequences to the friendship be damned, you were determined to stay at his side through this as his inhibitor kept running sequences on the computer, red flashing from the screen every few minutes to signal yet another failed attempt.
and, well. he exactly wasn't wrong.
you fought to hold contact with his deep, piercing eyes. "maybe i do, spider-man. what are you going to do about it?"
those were the magic words.
he ripped you off the wall, webbing still hanging from your wrists as he picked you up like you were nothing. a scream escaped your lips as you were airborne suddenly, flying through the air shortly before your back hit peter's bed.
his bed. oh fuck, you hadn't expected that to work so easily.
it was starting to become crystal clear that you were in fact going to have whiplash and possibly even a concussion tomorrow, but you were too fucking wet to care. you'd analyze what that meant about your psyche later. for now? you were simply too excited to see what the fuck he was going to do to you.
you watched as he stalked, taking in your frame as you laid hopelessly in his bed. his bed, which, was covered in webbing that extended down to the floor where peter was standing. you shifted with hesitation and watched peter's head flick towards you, almost like...
almost like he could feel your fucking vibrations against the webbing. like a fucking prey caught in his web, writhing for help and sending vibrations up this silk to signal the spider.
the spider, who was watching you through his black-hooded eyes, like he was fucking hungry.
peter started to squat down, and you sat up in turn, instantly worried his headache was consuming him again.
you didn't even get to meet his eyes.
peter pounced forward, a hydraulic explosion coming from his legs as he fucking jumped you on the bed, using his limbs to pin your own underneath him. your breath had initially hitched, but all air was taken from you as peter's hands were on your clothes, tearing the garments from your body like you'd only been in a paper fucking bag. shreds of cotton stuck to the webs around you as peter stared down at your mostly naked body.
he straddled you properly, using his hands to hold down your own again as he leaned close, breathing you in heavy. no doubt catching the pheromones in your sweat, a downright villainous smirk creeping on his lips as he got confirmation of just how turned on you were.
peter pulled back to see your eyes, and was taken aback to see the fear in them. regardless of every other emotion you were feeling right now, you were also scared.
and fuck, he did that.
he sat up straight, the black around his sclera retreating slightly as his breathing picked back up. you could feel him start to tremble over you again as peter buried his face in his hands for a moment.
"fuck, i don't- that's not," he choked out. "fuck, i'm so sorry. you need to get out of here, i fucking meant it earlier."
you could tell the headache was back as his grip tightened in his curls, a pained groan escaping from deep in his chest. he was fighting himself, trying to use the strength he had just minutes ago to lift himself off of your lap. you grabbed his hips to hold him down.
"peter, listen to me."
"please, i-i can't, i shouldn't have-"
"peter." he shook his head, refusing to look at you.
"i can't believe i put you in this position, oh my god. i-i, fuck i can't even begin to apologize..." he rambled. you tried to fight back, to tell him that it was okay, to let it happen.
you had been a firm supporter this entire time of the notion that peter just needed to let the spider in and see what the fuck happened. obviously, he had never wanted to do that. too afraid of what would happen. at this point, you were afraid of what would happen to him if he didn't submit to what was desperately trying to crawl out of him. this had seemed like as good time as any to test your theory, as peter's monitor still continued to flash red, the trial number now surpassing five hundred.
besides, if you died because spider-man ripped you in half from fucking you too hard? that was a fine way to go out, in your opinion.
so you antagonized him. just... a little.
"spider-man!" you yelled in his face, and your voice rang out alongside the CRACK! of your palm across his cheek.
peter looked back at you, slight shock on his flashing on face before his eyes went fully black again. he locked sight on you, eyes twitching as he analyzed each minute movement your body made. and there was that fucking smirk again.
"oh i see. you want this, don't you?" peter rasped in your ear as he leaned back down, his breath hot against your skin. "fine. but don't be mad at me when it gets to be too much."
in a split second, your hands were whipped high above your head, warm and sticky webs encasing your wrists once again. this time, attached to peter parker's headboard. fuck.
you squirmed in his grasp, fighting the webbing even though you knew it was no use. you were there when he discovered just how fucking strong his organic web was in comparison to the lab-designed. you couldn't move, and you knew it. he knew it too.
peter's hands were on you in a frenzy, ripping your bra clean from your body in a single motion. you gasped as he stared down at your chest, vibrating with restraint. restraint that peter didn't have right now.
perfect.
his hands weren't off your body for long, quickly lunging to wrap around your exposed breast. he squeezed the soft tissue, hard enough to elicit a scream that ripped straight from your throat. he growled at your response, loosening his grip and focusing on pinching your erect nipples instead. he leaned down to bite one, earning another piercing scream.
peter pulled back to admire his work, and you looked down to see the instant handprint that was bruising over your left tit. it made you dizzy, seeing peter spider-man mark you with such a primal fucking desire. blood rushed back to comfort the sore area, leaving your chest feeling warm and fuzzy. you weren't allowed much of a reprieve, however.
peter manhandled you exactly how he wanted you, crawling out of his hold on you to spread your legs and raise your knees. once he had you positioned, you felt the warm rush of webbing cover your feet as well. oh, you were so fucked.
his fingers trailed up your legs, starting at your feet and working their way towards your aching core. you shivered against his touch, and noticed how he relished in the way it caused his webbing around you to vibrate. you were but a bug in his web, caught and waiting to be eaten.
you let out a moan as he grabbed at your inner thighs, no doubt leaving matching handprints to the one on your chest. peter just snarled in response.
"so fucking desperate for it. is this why you've been helping me all along? just waiting to get fucked by spider-man?"
he stared up at you from where he was in between your legs, hot breath teasing against your damp underwear. "so desperate i bet you don't even need any prep, am i right?"
peter reached his hand towards your core, fingertips trembling with constraint as he could feel just how wet you were for him. he hissed, retracting his hand as though he had been burnt. within seconds, your underwear had been ripped off your body like the rest of your clothes, leaving you fully naked in front of peter parker.
in front of spider-man.
you stared into the black void of his eyes as he repeated the same action to himself, shredding the infamous juicy sweatpants in the process. you were pretty sure your eyes were as dark as his were, pupils blown to shit as you stared at the fucking greek statue in front of you.
did spiders have insanely large dicks, or was that just a peter thing?
not now, jesus.
as he promised, there was no goddamn prep. no easing into it. peter climbed back on top of you, his limbs stalking over yours as his webbing held you firmly in place. you tried to struggle against it, even if just for the show of it. definitely for the show of it.
"just a dumb. fucking. bug. aren't you? landed right where i fucking wanted you to."
peter gave no warning as he thrust all of himself inside you, a sharp cry punching from your chest as he bottomed out in one go. the line between pain and pleasure was a fine one as he set a disgustingly rough pace, pistoning in and out of you like it would literally kill him to go any slower.
maybe it would. you weren't here to find out.
you squirmed against him on a particularly heavy thrust, only to be met with a hand at the base of your throat again.
"no, hold still. you fucking wanted this."
oh, you were so gone. you weren't even sure you were going to remember enough of this to be able to psychoanalyze these newfound kinks, you were too fucking cock-drunk off peter. he was still relentlessly forcing his way into you, but you seemed almost distant from your body now. as though the pleasure was so good, you had started floating.
peter noticed and it only drove him crazier, watching your limp body move in time with his thrusts as he milked you dry, a creamy ring around his cock each time he pulled out.
"is this why you've been so against the fucking inhibitor? been wanting me to lose my goddamn mind like this?"
you weren't sure when you had started crying, but warm tears were now flooding down your rosy cheeks. peter mock cooed at the sight.
"don't cry now, baby. this is exactly what you wanted, isn't it? this is exactly what you fucking asked for."
you moaned at his words, too lost to form your own. peter only held you tighter. "such a pretty fucking crier. taking me so well."
peter dropped his head in the crook of your neck as he kept going, reaching new levels of overstimulation. and for the first time, the overstimulation wasn't destroying him. it was consuming, driving his every movement and decision -- but it didn't hurt anymore. it almost felt... good. natural.
he had never had sex like this before. sure, in the past, the physical intimacy of it all had been overwhelming, feeling each sensation of the other person as if it were also his own. but something about this was different. peter could feel your heartbeat inside of his own body, each time you pulsed around him sent an electrical current through his system that was, well... electrifying.
peter could feel you getting close, the constrictions of your muscles changing every so slightly to signal to him that you were on the edge. not only that, but he could fucking smell the hormonal change in your body before you even knew it yourself, soft moans falling from your lips in a desperate attempt to let him know.
like he didn't already fucking know.
"i know, that's it. come for me, baby. i want you to feel me for weeks. i want you to hurt so bad that no one else can fuck you. only me. you're fucking mine," peter snarled possessively in your ear.
that was all it took for you to fall over the edge, weightless as you screamed through the orgasm. the feeling of your cunt tightening around him, your juices slicking his cock even more, the sounds of it all: it was beyond lewd. peter was immediately behind you, the sensations coming from you enough to reset his entire system. it was a sensory overload in the best way possible, his vision going white as he came the hardest he ever had.
peter flooded you with his warmth, and you had come back to earth just enough to notice how similar his cum inside of you felt like his webs against your wrists. he gave one final thrust before collapsing on top of you, using his remaining strength to rip the webbing from your hands and feet. his breathing was heavy again as he pulled his head up to look at you, and you noticed that his eyes had returned to the soft brown rings of peter parker.
he flickered his gaze around you and where you both were, confusion flashing across his face as he fought everything in his body telling him to sleep.
"what... oh my god, what happened?"
peter barely slurred it out before he passed out on top of you. still inside of you.
you fought against your own haze, still on cloud nine as you caught a green glow from the corner of your eyes. thank god for his loft set up -- his desk being tucked next to his bed, allowing you to close access to his tech in this moment. sometime in the last god knew how long, EVIE had run a successful trial, signified by the incandescent green radiating from his monitor.
you reached out as far as peter's weight over you had allowed, just barely catching the inhibitor in your fingertips. you guided the small machine around his sleeping frame, connecting it to the spot on the back of his neck. you were already out of breath, fucked dumb and on the verge of passing out, but this was about peter. it had been since the beginning.
with the inhibitor finally latched and active with a soft chrip!, you let out a sigh of relief watching peter's vitals and DNA level back out on the computer monitor. you could feel peter further relax on top of you, and it was enough to give you a final sense of accomplishment before you let the lull wash over you too, pulling you under with peter into a blissful slumber.
you woke up hours later, tucked into the covers, still on peter's stiff mattress. the webbing around his bed was gone, leaving you to wake up on fresh sheets. the scent was overwhelming peter, causing a smile to graze your lips before you even opened your eyes. he must've moved you in your sleep, as both the bedding and you were cleaned off.
you opened your eyes slowly, a dull headache settling behind your eyes and confirming your whiplash/concussion hypothesis from earlier. you saw the evening light coming through the loft windows, which had also been cleared of the previous webbing, and noted that it had in fact been hours that you'd been sleeping. it was now that you also noticed you were still naked while wrapped in peter's comforter, and a blush settled over your cheeks.
you went to sit up, but your entire body screamed protest as you moved. only a soft grunt left your lips, but it was enough to alert peter that you were awake again. he was at your side in an instant.
"oh my god, you're awake. thank fucking god, i was so worried that-"
you cut off his rambling with a hand to his chest, grateful to feel his heart beat almost at a normal rate again. normal for anxious peter, at least.
"pete, i'm okay." you gave him a soft smile, but it was the comfort that sent him over the edge. he quivered next to you as tears fought to fall from his eyes, physical proof of just how sorry he was.
there was your peter parker.
"no, listen. i'm so fucking sorry. i can't actually describe to you how sorry i am, there's no words for it. i-i'm a fucking monster, i can't believe that i... fuck, oh my god- i'm going to fucking throw up. i-i have the cops on speed dial, you know that, right? i'll call them. i swear to god, i will turn myself in right fucking now-"
"peter," you tried again, sitting up to meet his eye level more. to stop his spiraling.
the opposite happened as the blanket fell slightly in your adjustment, revealing a bit of your chest where he had left a handprint. peter's eyes locked onto the bruise, and he looked moments away from throwing himself off the building. his nervous shaking had turned to violent, full body tremors as tears finally slipped down his cheeks. he opened his mouth, surely to apologize more, but you weren't having it.
you pulled him in for a kiss, ignoring how tender your wrists were as you grabbed onto his sweatshirt. peter was hesitant at first, but soon melted into the kiss, feeling something deep and primal within him relax.
you broke the kiss to look at him again, and peter was beyond confused. "but i-"
"peter, i wanted it. all of it." you held his gaze firmly, one hand holding his comforter over your bare chest, the other tightly holding his own trembling palm. "i wanted to push you and see what would happen. to help you prove to yourself that you aren't a fucking monster, even if you don't know what the fuck is taking over. you're still my peter parker. you're still good."
peter let out a relieved huff of air, pulling you in for a gentle and cautious hug as happy tears landed against your bare back. he held you, thanking you profusely for trusting him. for helping him trust himself.
"do you feel better, pete?" you mumbled into the crook of his neck.
he choked on a laugh, and you felt a soft nod against your cheek. "yeah. yeah, fuck, i guess i do."
peter pulled back, concern laced in his eyebrows once again. "but you-"
"but i nothing, parker. i'm okay, really. think i can't handle a good fucking? being hurt a little?"
peter's cheeks lit on fire, a red flush extending down under the collar of his shirt. he laughed nervously, absentmindedly reaching up to graze his fingertips over the bruise blooming over your breasts. "good, huh? you're not too hurt?"
"oh i'm definitely hurt," you smirked at how quickly his face fell, your hand cupping his over your chest. "dare i say, hurt so bad that no one but you can fuck me?"
maybe it wasn't so bad if peter let the spider take over every now and then.
Summary: A hot doctor rescues you from a creep outside of your gym and it turns out you have a lot more in common than your choice of workout venue.
Or, the D/s universe getting together fic I've been yapping about for months!
Story Tags/Notes: girly!sub!reader, dom!brendon, reader is a kids' ballet teacher, brendon is a trauma surgeon in the ED, getting together fic, slow-ish burn, kink dynamic/relationship negotiation, communication porn, sugaring/spoiling/gifts, reader is mentioned as not shaving body hair, full aftercare
NSFW Tags/Notes: its a lengthy smut so, panty sniffing, teasing, face slapping, light punishment, black nitrile gloves, inspection kink, breast play, pain play, biting, marks, fingering (f), fisting (f), squirting, multiple orgasms (f), dacryphilia, scent/armpit/musk/sweat kinks, one single line of degradation, lots and lots of praise/affirmation/pet names, choking/breath play, piv (unprotected, discussion is implied), creampie
Content: sexual harassment/intimidation, broken wrist
A/N: everyone say a sloppy slutty thank you to @honestlystop for their generous donation to my birthday fundraiser which led to this being completed! and a personal thank you for always being so lovely and supportive
Word Count: 18.3k
Brendon Park’s noticed you at his gym before, of course. It’s hard not to. You always wear pastel pink sets with tiny little tennis skirts that barely cover your ass or those partially sheer pilates outfits with the waist-emphasizing tie. Like most of the guys at the gym, much as he hates to be lumped in with them, Brendon’s eyes drift up when your evening yoga or pilates or barre or pole class gets out, watching the sea of sweaty women in tight outfits flitting past with satisfied giggles.
Unlike an unfortunate number of the other men there, though, Brendon is at the gym to work out, not try to get a girlfriend, so he’s never interacted with you more than the occasional ‘good workout?’ when you’ve passed each other going into the locker rooms at the same time.
Tonight changes that.
It’s a 24-hour gym, but it’s usually dead this late. Brendon’s used to being one of maybe three guys who always work insane schedules getting in his last arm curls before crashing for eighteen hours straight. For some reason, though, you’re here. It looks like you’ve had a long day – you’re in a cropped baby pink sweatshirt and matching sweatpants, cute but definitely not aiming for sexy the way you usually do – but you’re still committed to your daily gym time the way Brendon is. He has to admit he admires the dedication; it’s not a common trait these days. He gives you one of those hunky smiles on his way past as he goes to the locker room, nodding and wishing you a good night.
But, once he’s showered and changed, beyond ready to go home and flop into bed after downing 12,000 calories of leftovers, he sees you hurriedly trying to collect your things as one of the few other guys in the gym hits on you. And he’s not being casual or subtle. In fact, he’s got one arm lording over you as you bend down to shove things into your bag, completely ignoring him.
The hairs on the back of Brendon’s neck bristle as you push past the guy into the night – and the fucker follows you. Brendon’s moving before he can even think, much less overthink. He’d do the same for anyone. Of course he would. He only has to hear a few words out of the bastard’s mouth – c’mon, baby, you know you want a real man – before he decides he has to get involved.
“Hey, man, leave her alone,” Brendon barks. You whip around with gratitude already written on your features, taking over the fear and annoyance that had been there a split second ago. He grabs the guy’s elbow and tugs him away from you. “How about you head home and then change your gym schedule?”
The asshole rolls his eyes and squares up against Brendon, chest to chest, as you shrink back toward the sidewalk. “What are you, her boyfriend?”
Brendon scoffs back, “Just a guy with a moral compass. Fuck off before I make you.”
Then he tries to maneuver his body between yours and your harasser – but the guy grabs you so that he can’t. His bruising grip wraps around your forearm and he tugs you toward him. You realize for the first time that you can smell liquor on his breath, sharp and aggressive. Had he wandered into the gym from a bar just to get to you? Did he drink so much he’s always drunk? Your mind races around the possibilities as he baits Brendon with a laugh, “You really wanna play knight in shining armor, pretty boy?”
Brendon rolls his shoulders.
The first time he’d been told he had to get his temper under control, he was in the fifth grade. A boy a few grades up from him threw pebbles at his sister on the walk back from the bus after they went to daily summer camp together. His sister told him to leave it alone, but he couldn’t. He managed to simmer on it for three whole days before he broke the kid’s jaw and two of his ribs. The boy was too embarrassed to admit he’d had his ass handed to him by an eleven-year-old, so all Brendon got was a lecture from his mother when his sister ratted him out.
In high school, he joined football and wrestling to get his aggression out. Every time his shoulder collided with someone else, every time he slammed a body on the mat, it let him clear his head of all the frustration and indignation and anxiety and everything. Of course, he still earned a handful of suspensions when he couldn’t keep it under control, the occasional fit knocking into someone’s orbital if they wouldn’t leave his skinnier friend alone or refused to back down when he defended a cheerleader.
Through college and med school, he learned that control was just as good as acting out. Professionally, being at the top of his class gave him the same ego high. He kept his thoughts in line with a rigorous workout schedule and even more demanding academic schedule. Personally, he found kink. The holy catharsis of someone giving themselves over to him completely. Trusting that he could handle them and himself at once. Of course, surgery is the best outlet he’s ever found. Just him, his subordinates, his orders, his hands. The world narrows into a set of problems with clear, measured solutions that only he knows. He gets to be god in the OR.
But the kid who couldn’t handle watching his sister get hurt? He’s still very much there.
So, tonight, Brenton launches one of his half-million-dollar hands into the face of the guy who’s just grabbed you, aiming to avoid cracking any of the bones while inflicting maximum pain and shock.
As the guy’s grip falters from staggering backward, you wrench out of his grasp and fall to the ground with a shriek, catching your weight squarely on one palm. Sharp pain cracks through your wrist. It reverberates up your arm and across your entire body. You’re so wrapped up in the pain that you barely register Brendon flagging down the gym’s security guard to come out and take the asshole away, telling him what happened as he shakes out his hand from the punch.
Once it’s just the two of you, Brendon kneels down and reaches out, careful not to scare you, like you’re a rabbit who might dart. “C’mon, let me see that wrist; I’m a doctor.”
With shiny eyes and a sniffly nose, you ask, “You’re a doctor?”
“Trauma surgeon,” he confirms as you gingerly present your swollen wrist, already darkening and swelling around the impact point. He’s so careful as he examines it, but you still wince with every motion. He hates himself for noticing just how pretty you are when you cry. Sighing, he tells you, “This looks like a break to me. You’ll need some imaging done and you’ll probably need a hard cast. Is there someone I can call to come get you?”
Swiping your tears away with your uninjured hand – more fall anyway – you ask with so much hope in your eyes he knows he’s going to fold no matter what, “Can you drive me? You can bring me back to my car after, promise.”
Brendon rewrites his entire night in a split second. What is he doing? His brows furrow. He’s not nice. He’s not helpful. Certainly not to strangers who could be serial killers as far as he knows. But, looking at your wobbly lip and twitching chin, he can’t help nodding and saying, “Yeah, sure. Of course.”
Brendon helps guide you to your feet, one hand on your waist and the other clasping your free hand as you cradle your broken wrist to your chest. His hands are really big. Maybe it’s the adrenaline making you woozy, but he does look a hell of a lot like a knight in shining armor leading you down the street toward his car with one hand on your back and a posture like he’ll kill anyone who approaches.
You’re not much of a car person yourself, but you are a luxury person, so you can spot a Corvette Stingray from a mile away. When you realize that Brendon’s leading you toward a gorgeous cherry red one with the top down that you’d admired before arriving at the gym, your jaw drops. “This is your car?”
“Like I said, I’m a surgeon.” He chuckles as he takes out the keys and unlocks it. “They pay me too much not to drive some sexy sports car, right?”
“Sexy is right,” you whistle, taking a second to admire the sleek Corvette’s cream leather interior as he opens up the passenger side door for you. “You’re a spoiled brat, huh?”
“I only drive her during the summer,” he tells you seriously as he helps you into the front seat, his arm protective around you as you get settled. Your stomach flutters as he reaches across your body and clicks your seatbelt into place, one of those large hands brushing over your bare abdomen and the other bracing his balance on your headrest, his bicep ginormous, still pumped from his workout. It’s painfully mortifying how good his sweat smells. He touches the back of your neck sweetly and checks, “You comfortable? Want the seat warmer on or anything?”
“It’s eighty degrees out.”
“Right.” He closes your door, drums his fingers on the side, and sighs, “Sorry, I’m not used to…”
With a teasing smirk, you suggest as he trails off, “Human interaction?”
“Yeah, that about covers it, actually.” He shakes his head and hops over the driver’s side door like a real asshole before sliding easily behind the wheel. As the quiet engine hums to life, he adds, “I spend eight hours a day in surgery; the only real speaking I do is to give orders.”
“That’s hot.”
Something twitches inside of him. You’re joking, but there’s a shade of truth in it, clearly. Interesting.
“Ow ow ow,” you keen pathetically as he pulls into traffic, the slightest movement jostling your wrist. With tears welling up again, you plead, “Distract me. Tell me about your other car.”
He scoffs, “That’s your ideal distraction? Not my cool job or our shared interests or-” Your adorable mean glare cuts him off. “Okay, okay. Promise you won’t make fun of me first.” You shake your head ‘no’ as tears slip over your cheeks. He laughs and concedes, “Fine, you can make fun of me until your arm’s patched up. It’s a G-Series.”
“God, you’re even worse than I thought,” you force yourself to laugh as you cringe again. “You’ll have to take me for a drive sometime. I’ve never been in one.”
“It drives like a dream,” he replies, giving a concerned glance as he tries to placate you with the distraction. Thank fuck he goes to the gym closest to the hospital. “Do you like actually driving or just going for drives?”
With a grimace as the convertible pulls into a reserved space close to the Emergency Department doors, you tell him, “Definitely a passenger princess. I like sightseeing.”
“I figured,” he teases lightly as he rounds the car again to help you out. “That’s good, though; I like doing the driving. You can focus on enjoying all the features.”
Outright crying now, you ask, “Does it have the heated cupholders for coffee?”
“Yeah, it does,” he half-laughs, “and cooling if you have water or something, too.”
Voice wobbling, you reply weakly, pain radiating through your whole arm, “That’s so luxurious.”
Brendon has to bite back the urge to laugh. You’re painfully cute in this state, fighting hard to stay calm but clearly completely unable to. “It really is. Great car.”
With your pink gym bag over his shoulder, Brendon walks you into the ED, shooting glares at every single one of his coworkers who dares to cut him even a curious glance, much less a surprised one or one laden with gossip. He gets you checked in quickly and efficiently as the space buzzes around him; you get the sense that his presence makes everyone…maybe not nervous, necessarily, but alert. There’s an expectation that he’s going to take charge of every conversation. He always talks first to someone who’s completely prepared to listen and jump at his marching orders.
The whole time, you shrink next to him. You’ve always hated hospitals. The smells, the bright lights, the mix of groans and wails and heavy silence. It makes your skin crawl. Brendon can tell; unconsciously, he rubs your back between your shoulder blades, fingers soothing down your spine, occasionally resting at the small of your back where your skin is bare. He’s not even thinking about it, just following his instincts and letting himself bend to your needs without questioning it.
Once you’re comfortably settled in a room, Brendon oversees the creation of your chart and then bends down to meet your eyes. He brushes your tear-stained cheek with his thumb and starts to explain, “Someone’ll come in and take you up to get an X-ray soon. Do you want me to stay or-”
“Don’t leave,” you whimper, catching his forearm. When you touch him, his heart pounds in a way it hasn’t in a long time. It’s the way those shiny eyes look to him so effortlessly. Needy. You’re pretty when you cry. Your voice drops to an embarrassed whisper as you admit, “I really, really hate hospitals. I’m scared shitless. Please stay.”
The shame on your face that only he can soothe is too delicious to deny. He holds your unharmed hand and sits down on the stool next to you. Rubbing the back of your hand, he assures you gently, more gently than any of the nurses or doctors here have ever heard, “I’m right here. I’ve got you; I don’t have anywhere to be.”
“Promise? I’m not, like, ruining your whole night or anything?”
Your eyes are so damn wide and innocent. Completely irresistible to a deep, prickly part of his brain. He’s quick to shake his head and assure, “I’m off tomorrow. I was gonna go home and sleep in. I’m a big boy; I can push my bedtime back by a few hours.”
With a soft, teary smile, you squeeze his hand. “Thank you.”
Faster than you can believe, you’re pumped full of painkillers and in for X-Rays, certain that Brendon is pulling strings for you without making a show of it. Once the imaging has confirmed a break, another doctor joins you, tall and gruff with kind eyes and crows’ feet. Very handsome. You glance at his badge as he goes to introduce himself, but he’s taken aback when he sees Brendon behind you. “What’s going on, Park? You’re not on the schedule tonight.”
Brendon attempts to sum up the night: “Ah, no, but this one took a tumble right outside of my gym.”
“Can’t resist a damsel in distress. Got it.” Before Brendon can intervene on that line of thought, the doctor turns to you with a warm smile. “Hi, I’m Dr. Robinavitch, but you can call me Robby. I’m gonna be applying your hard cast, okay?”
Perhaps a tad loopy on the painkillers, you tap on the badge clipped to his chest with your manicured nail, amused by the satisfying clicking. “Attending Physician. You seem kinda important to be doing my cast.”
Robby shrugs and chuckles, “The Shark calls, I answer.”
“The Shark?” You grin wide and stare at Brendon. “They call you that here?”
Brendon grimaces. “Ah, yeah. It rhymes.”
“Obviously it rhymes,” you giggle, turning your attention back to Robby, “but why do you guys call him that? Is he super duper scary when he’s at work?”
“Something like that,” Robby snorts as the nurse prepping his station also stifles a laugh. When Brendon absolutely glares, Robby clears his throat and straightens up. “Alright, let’s get down to business about that wrist. I just had a look at your X-Rays and you’ve got what’s called a Colles’ fracture, a minor break that happens when you fall on an outstretched hand. We treat about a million of these a week down here, so you’ll be out of the joint in no time, but you’re looking at six to eight weeks in a hard cast.”
“Shoot,” you sigh. Lip pouted and voice grumpy (so cute Park almost blacks out), you check, “Can I at least get a pink one?”
“Absolutely, you can,” Dr. Robby laughs and opens up the box of fiberglass tape options. “I’ve got Flamingo Fuchsia-” he shows you a classic neon pink cast color, then a paler option “-or Bubblegum Blast.”
You smile and confirm, “Bubblegum, definitely.”
He flashes you a charming smile. “I had a feeling, Barbie.”
Brendon interrupts gruffly, “Keep it in your pants, Michael.”
Heat crawls up your neck at how protective his voice sounds. Dr. Robby’s eyes flick between the two of you, clearly amused at seeing his coworker in a new light. “My apologies; I didn’t know Park the Shark had a girlfriend.”
Voice all teasing and lilting, you reply, “Oh, he’s not my boyfriend, Dr. Robby.”
“Seems like maybe he wants to be,” Robby snorts as he carefully preps your arm. While methodically applying your cast, he tries to distract you from the pain of your wrist being handled breaking through the IV by offering up, “What kind of dog do you have? I can see the hair on your pants.”
You wince anyway, jumping a bit from the pain. Brendon slings his arm around your shoulders and rubs your back gently. With a deep breath, you tell him, “I have a Cane Corso. Big black mastiff. If he’d been with me tonight like he is when I go running, you’d be amputating the other guy’s arm right about now.”
Brendon straightens up with a laugh, imagining your sweet, bubbly, girly self with a giant, mean-looking dog. “Seriously? Don’t those things weigh, like, 100 pounds?”
“Duke weighs 120,” you reply with a sheepish smile. Whenever anyone finds out about your dog, they look at you differently. And it does stop you from focusing on the pain to talk about him, so you explain further, “My big brother used to live in the city and spend lots of time with me. He’s always been really protective, so when he was getting ready to move away, he wanted to make sure I’d be safe. We went on a roadtrip to get him as a puppy and worked with a trainer here so he’s, like, the perfect protection dog. We’re AWDA certified for bite work and everything.” With your free hand, you take your phone out and click it to life to show off the background photo, you and Duke wearing matching Louis Vuitton fleeces while posing in the snow. Sighing affectionately, you tell them, “I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s a total softie when I tell him he can trust someone, but he’d rip a guy’s throat out if they tried to attack me.”
“I like him already,” Brendon says as he admires the massive dog on your phone. With his eyes once again locked on your wrist, he sharply chastises, “Watch the angle on that, Robinavitch, you want her arm to heal as crooked as your teeth?”
“I didn’t wear braces for five years to deal with your bullshit, Brendon,” Robby bites back. He leans back and admires his own work, remarking, “Straight as a damn arrow. That’s textbook work. What do you think, Barbie, up to your standards?”
You examine it as if you’d even know what to look for, trying to suppress the loopy little giggles that threaten. Being your friendly self, you squeeze Robby’s forearm and tell him, “Thank you so much; it looks really good.”
Something ugly and new tightens up in Brendon’s chest when he sees your hand on Robby’s arm. Not new, actually. Familiar but forgotten.
Robby just smiles and says, “You sat like a champ; it should heal up no problem. You need to sit tight here for about half an hour so it can harden. Someone’ll come in with your discharge paperwork and hopefully this’ll be the last time you have to see my ugly mug.”
“Awww no, stop,” you pout, patting Robby on his scruffy cheek, “you’re so handsome, doctor.”
Brendon nearly growls.
Robby laughs at his obvious displeasure and gives you an earnest smile. “You take care, okay? Sorry in advance that you’re gonna have to deal with Park’s insane physical therapy schedule. I have to imagine he’ll be twice as bad when it comes to his girlfriend.”
You cover your smile as Brendon sets his jaw. “Mike, I’ve already thrown one punch tonight; let’s not make it two.”
As Robby leaves the room, shaking his head and chuckling to himself, you whip toward Brendon with a horrified realization on your face. “I forgot about your hand! Is it okay? Is it bruised? Oh god, you’re a surgeon. Did I ruin your hand? Is someone gonna not get their heart fixed because of me?”
“Woah there,” Brendon laughs, “it’s alright, I promise. I know how to tuck my thumb and everything.” He flexes his fingers in front of you for good measure. There’s some light bruising along his two center knuckles and tears once again brim at your waterline. “I’ll be good as new after some leftovers.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. Plus, I mostly do bones, not hearts.” Then he lies that he has to run to the bathroom, assuring that he’ll be right back, and beelines to the hub as he rummages around his pockets. Brendon surreptitiously leans over the counter with his heavy black card dangling from his fingers. Keeping his voice low, he mutters, “I’ll cover the patient in two, alright?”
Perlah narrows her eyes at him. “You’re not her doctor, are you?”
“No, I’m not.”
She raises an eyebrow and pulls up your paperwork. “You know she has shit insurance?”
“It’s America.”
“The bill’s over four grand.”
“Like I said. And?”
“Alright, then.” Perlah takes the card and runs it, letting out a long breath. “She must be something special.”
“I barely know her.”
“Whatever you say, Shark.”
You watch Brendon through the glass next to the exam room door, knowing exactly what he must be doing. Eyeing him up, you take out your phone and open Tinder, letting it refresh for a second to load new options. Then you go to your settings and switch the distance to the closest possible. After swiping through a couple of faces, you see exactly what you’d been hoping for: A beefy set of biceps in a pair of dark scrubs. No face because of course not.
Park. 35. Private. Dom. Check out my Fet to see if we’re a good match: hammerhead.md
You have to suppress a squeal.
Game, set, match.
It’s a couple of days before Brendon sees you again. Even if it’s not surprising that you skip a few gym sessions with a broken arm, or even if you changed gyms altogether after that guy bothered you, he still finds himself strangely disappointed at the lack of you. So, when you skip into the ED the following Monday morning with a big smile and a fresh manicure, Brendon lets out a sigh of what feels weirdly like relief. He’d chastise himself for already getting attached if he didn’t like seeing you smile so much.
With a quick nod to the hub to check that he can take a minute, Brendon slips away toward you, meeting you in a quiet corner off the main lobby. You’re wrapping him in a hug before his mouth is even open, careful not to knock him in the head with your hard cast as you do. Once you let go – he lets it linger for longer than he probably should – in lieu of a greeting, he furrows his brow and takes your cast in his hands, examining it carefully. “How’s this feeling? Nice and stable but not too tight?”
“Feels totally fine,” you assure him. “You don’t have to kill your doctor friend for me, I promise.”
“You’re only knocking off one of many reasons to kill him, gorgeous.” Not even realizing he’s said it, much less the swooning heart eyes you give him in response, Brendon smiles at your heavily signed cast. With a grin, he says, “I see you’ve got lots of friends on the playground.”
“I teach at a ballet school,” you giggle as you show off the myriad of names in silver sharpie, most of them haphazard. “I have five- to seven-year-olds now, so they thought the cast was just about the coolest thing in the entire world.”
“You’re welcome, then. I’ll stop feeling so bad about it.”
You nudge him in the shoulder and glare, ultra stern, so cute it makes him want to vomit. “You don’t have anything to feel bad about.”
He sighs sharply as he remembers the sight of you crying on the cement. “If I’d stepped in about ten seconds sooner, or if I hadn’t been so aggressive with the guy, then-”
“Don’t, Bren. Seriously. If you hadn’t been there, I don’t even want to think about what might’ve happened,” you cut him off. You open your large purse, dig around for a moment, and present him with a small box. “Make it up to me by very graciously accepting the gift I got you to say thanks without being all stupid about it.”
“I’m actually not allowed to accept gifts from patients.”
Only shoving it further into his grip, you insist, “I’m not a patient; you weren’t doing any doctoring. I’m just your friend from the gym.”
“My friend, huh?”
“Well, yeah, you took such good care of me.” Your choice of phrase makes Brendon’s head spin in a long-forgotten way. It’s been a long time since he had someone to take care of properly. When he doesn’t immediately open the box, you nudge him and insist, “C’mon, I picked it out special.”
With a sigh and a playful eye roll, he opens the hinged box to reveal a golden-edge watch mounted on a navy leather band with a soft brown interior. He drops his act as he admires the luxurious but understated piece. It suits him. Admiring it, he croons, “Jesus, this is gorgeous. You have a good eye.”
Glittering under the praise – it’s your favorite kind of compliment – you reply, “I’m sure you already have something much fancier to wear when you’re out in the real world with your Corvette and your surgeon money, but you should still have something nice-ish for the gym and work.”
Brendon shakes his head and closes the box simply to resist temptation. “I appreciate the gesture, really, but I can’t accept a gift I know cost an arm and a leg.”
“Well,” you go in, arms crossed over your chest (revealing eye-popping cleavage) to make it clear you have no intentions on taking it back, “the arm alone cost a few thousand dollars and I caught you paying for it already, so you’d better take the leg.” He purses his lips and relents, checking out the pretty piece again with a soft smile. Dropping your voice somewhere tender and secretive, you murmur, “You didn’t have to do that.”
He shrugs simply. “I wanted to.”
You poke him in the chest. “I have my own money.”
“You teach ballet to toddlers. I don’t mean that disrespectfully at all – in fact, I think that’s awesome; I’ve watched you in pilates and I bet you’re a fantastic dancer to-”
A huge, pink-glossed smile splits across your face. “You’ve watched me in pilates?”
“The studio has a glass wall,” he almost stammers out. His cheeks tinge pink. Caught. Then he swallows hard and redirects, “I just mean that I didn’t expect you to have four grand easily lying around.”
With a pout, you tell him, “I could’ve covered it just fine, so keep the watch.”
“How?”
“I have my secrets.”
“Promise me that secret isn’t credit card debt?”
“Promise.” You lift up your pinky, a clear challenge to him: To indulge or not to indulge. Wiggling it as an invitation, you add, “Not a penny of debt to my name.”
Brendon rolls his eyes, checks over his shoulder, and then links his pinkie with yours. “Good girl.”
Your breath catches in your throat for a moment before you clear it. Flustered at how those two words go right between your legs and up your spine, you squeak out, “I should get back to the studio. I just, um, wanted to say thank you so much for looking out for me.”
“I’d do it for anyone.”
“No you wouldn’t.”
His eyes bore into yours. There’s a beat of charged silence as he decides how to acknowledge the truth of your observation. There’s a sharpness to your soft, feminine expression that he doesn’t miss. At last, before he can come up with anything to say, he takes his prescription pad from his pocket, scribbles something on it, and hands the note over.
It’s his number. After another moment or two, curiously observing the way you smirk at his digits like you’ve earned them, he says, “Someone needs to teach you to defend yourself when you don’t have Duke around. I box for half my workouts; I’ll show you some moves once your arm’s better.”
Swaying gently, you ask, “Does that mean I have to wait six weeks to see you again?”
He’s studying you so carefully it makes you squirm. It almost feels like an interview, the way he’s looking at you. “Not necessarily.”
You’re head over heels for Brendon by the time the tension between you actually reaches a boiling point. He’s been going on runs with you until you can get back in the gym, both of you talking and joking around as you jog around the park across from the hospital early in the morning before each of you heads off to your job. He tells you about his surgeries, his students, his countless responsibilities. You tell him about your students (much cuter and less frustrating), your dog, your passions. All of it comes out during the slower parts of your time together when you catch your breath in the misty fountain closest to the entrance to the hospital.
On the handful of days where you’re both off, the jogs turn into walks around the city. You live in the same neighborhood, you in an okay-enough garden apartment and he in a bona fide luxury penthouse only two blocks down. Your mind always supplies just how convenient it would be if you did go out with each other. Despite the obvious disparity in your lifestyles – his money, his education, his intensity – you never get the sense that Brendon sees you as less than. He doesn’t intimidate you the way he does other people. To you, he’s like Duke, your protection dog. Big and strong and scary but secretly craving good company and a pat on the head.
As soon as your cast is off – Brendon makes a point of personally overseeing the orthopedic resident who removes it – he’s quick to get you back in the gym, specifically in the boxing ring. It’s your third time trying out some self-defense movies with him when the damn finally breaks.
Firstly, all this boxing has resulted in a hell of a lot more touching than Brendon anticipated. Part of him wonders if he’s self-sabotaging, dangling a carrot stick in front of himself for some unconscious reason he’s not privy to. Secondly, you swish into the gym wearing a skin-tight, tiny baby-pink singlet, yet another one of your outfits designed to drive him insane. Watching you peel off the matching cropped sweater once you’re in the gym has him swallowing hard as he tries to focus on the task ahead of him. It’s the way your nipples nudge the fabric, he thinks, that’s the worst of all. The most torturous. Or maybe it’s the slope of your waist into your hips. Or maybe it’s-
“Bren!” You launch yourself into his arms hard enough to knock half the wind from him. He holds you tight as you tell him, “I have, like, the most amazing news in the history of the world.”
He lets out a laugh as he pretends for his own sake that he can’t feel your tits pressing against his bare chest. Letting his hand linger on your lower back, he checks, “Yeah? What would that be?”
“My class got picked to be the Polichinelles in The Nutcracker for the Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre this winter!” You hug him again, like the excitement is just too much for you to bear, and this time you jump up and down, too. He wants to spin you around and kiss you hard just to taste an ounce of that enthusiasm for himself. You’re still smiley when you go on, “Obviously, a lot of the city’s ballet schools get to send dancers for different performances and everything, but getting picked is a huge honor for me and it’ll be so special for all the girls to get to feel what it’s like to be on a real stage in front of a big audience and it’ll be my first time getting to teach and direct and choreograph at that level and-”
“Take a breath, sweetheart,” Brendon interrupts with a chuckle. He melts under the glow of your smile for a second as you giggle at yourself, fanning your face. He hasn’t been that excited about something in, Jesus, maybe forever. It’s infectious. Inadvertently still cupping your cheek with one hand and holding you with the other, he confirms, “That means your students will be the little kids who come out from under the big lady’s skirt?”
“Yes!” You squeal, “You’ve seen The Nutcracker?!”
“Of course I have; I’m not some uncultured jock,” he scoffs. (In fact, he’d watched it on his laptop for the first time – the one where Macaulay Culkin is the prince – after you told him you were submitting your class for the part in the ballet a few weeks back, hoping he’d be able to impress you with it if it ever came up.) Realizing that he’s standing like he’s about to make out with you, he takes a step back and clears his throat before saying, “That’s really great; congratulations. Hope I can manage to score a ticket.”
You pout out your lower lip as your eyes get watery. “You’d come to my kids’ ballet?”
He looks down at his feet and shrugs modestly. “I’m sure my mother would love to go for Christmas or something.”
“That’s so sweet, Brendon, thank you.” And there’s one more hug. Of course there is. This time, he notices the sweet floral scent of your shimmery body spray, the one you spritz on before morning gym sessions to justify putting off your shower until after the workout. He wants to lean into it, to breathe deeper, to fall into the gentle edges of your life where your biggest news is making little girls’ dreams come true. Everything good in you is everything missing in him. When you pull back, you give him a determined nod and offer, “Ready to get started? Today’s the day I pin you, big boy.”
He grins and lifts the rope for you to step into the ring. “I seriously doubt that.”
But he can’t resist how damn determined and serious you look as you jab him with punches, some of them even landing correctly after a few sessions of training. A few times, he gets so distracted with watching you that he forgets to defend himself and you really manage to get him in the ribs. You get this proud expression that’s bright and sweet whenever you do something right. So he maybe, just a little, to indulge himself more than anything, lets you pin him.
When he sees you breathing heavily above him with a big smile, seated on his chest, hands on his shoulders, it’s definitely worth it for the brutal teasing he has to endure the rest of the morning. He touches your waist gently and praises, “Good job. That was a really great strike – getting me off balance. That was good work.”
You erupt into a fit of self-satisfied giggles as you watch him catch his breath and tease, “You left your tummy wide open.”
He cracks up at that, throwing his arm over his forehead. “My tummy?”
God, his sweat smells good. You’ll go insane if you stay on top of him any longer. You finally stand up, stretch out your arms, and reply, “Occupational hazard of working with kids. It’s all tummies and bottoms and magic toes.”
Brendon does a full kip up back to his feet because he’s an asshole and too sexy to take your eyes off of for even a second. As he stretches himself out, too, he snickers, “Magic toes?”
“Tendu,” you explain, extending your leg out in a neat line, “and glissé.” You glide your pointed bare foot along the boxing mat floor, the delicate gesture out of place and eye-catching compared to Brendon’s bulk and grit. His eyes lock on the extension of your thigh, the flex in your calves, the sleek lines you easily craft after a lifetime of practice. He can’t help imagining how lovely you’d be in your proper ballet attire. Catching him watching a little too closely, you nudge him in the knee with your foot and say, “Those are ‘magic toes.’ Some of the foundations you have to master to do any movements, but they’re a little young to always nail it en français.”
As the two of you exit the ring and grab your waters and towels, he says ever-so-casually, “I’d like to see you dance for real sometime.”
Your heart flutters. “Yeah?”
He nods, drinking from his water as an excuse to avoid elaborating on the truth of how much he loves to watch your body move no matter what you’re doing. His adam’s apple bobs tortuously in his throat. You try not to ogle him too much, but it’s fundamentally unavoidable when he leans back against the wall and lets out a deep breath, his chest and shoulders and abs all moving with his lungs.
“So,” you begin, slow and absent, like you’re about to compare schedules with him, “are you really gonna make me ask you out? Because I think it should be the other way around.”
He chokes on his water and sputters a bit, making you laugh at having caught him off guard. After a second of coughing, all he can muster is, “What?”
You roll your eyes, nudge his pec, and explain, “It’s so obvious we’re supposed to go out with each other, Bren. Hell, we’re practically dating already. I mean, c’mon, the meet-cute where you rescued me from danger, the rising action of you helping to heal my broken arm, the climax of you letting me pin you while we’re both half-naked.”
“I didn’t let you-” At your adorable glare, Brendon lifts his hands in defeat. After letting himself think for long enough to make you nervous, he says,“Alright, alright. I wanted to build your confidence; sue me.” He runs a hand through his sweat-wavy hair. Procrastinating. “Look, I like you a lot – you’re beautiful, you make me laugh, you’re easy to be around – but the thing is,” he sighs, a certain darkness taking over his voice, “I don’t do normal relationships.”
You stare him down just to torture him by dragging it out, not wanting to show your hand too early. You’ve been waiting to play it too long to reveal your cards a moment too soon. As if innocently, you ask him, “What do you mean?”
He chews on the words for a minute before awkwardly deciding on, “I have certain…needs, I guess, that typical relationships don’t satisfy. That sounds stupid. I’m not sure how to say this.”
You give him a ‘just you wait’ look, hustle over to your gym bag, and take your phone out. Then you walk back, open up your photos, and present a screenshot of his own FetLife page – specifically your favorite photo of him sweating through a cut-up tank top after a workout, which you’d saved for…reference. His eyebrows raise, amused and suspicious, as you poke him in the chest and inform him with a self-satisfied sing-song voice, “You’re not as mysterious as you think. So let me be clear here: I think you should take me out.”
A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You’re not surprised, are you?”
“Of course not,” you reply. “Even the first night you stayed with me at the hospital, I could practically smell it on you. The way you barked orders and protected me. Made me feel safe because you knew I was scared.” His gaze has gone intense now. You’d expected him to look caught and embarrassed the way he usually does when you tease him for flirting, but suddenly he’s snapped into his element and it’s making you nervous. You remember what his colleague called him. Shark. He looks like he’s hunting you as you admit quietly, “When you’re like me, it’s easy to notice.”
He takes a step closer and lowers his voice. You’ve got him now and you both know it. “Like you?”
You give him a bashful smile and avert your eyes. “You really couldn’t tell?”
Brendon studies you carefully for a minute. Your fluttery lashes when you’re nervous. Your softly parted lips when you gaze up at him. The way your tears are nothing short of angelic and your smiles nothing short of honeyed perfection. He steps forward, closing the space between you, glances around the empty gym, and lifts his large hand to your neck. No pressure, no grabbing. But you gasp anyway. Your pupils dilate. And he knows. He pushes his hand up your neck until it’s right beneath your jaw, his pinky and his thumb able to encompass the whole width of your throat.
As he releases you, suddenly seeming twice as tall and broad and confident as usual, Brendon offers, “Let’s go out, then. Dinner tonight? So we can talk things through properly.”
Struggling to ignore the throbbing between your legs, you tell him, “I’m done at the studio at four.”
“Text me your address. I’ll pick you up at six.” He checks his watch and shoulders his bag, touching your lower back to guide you toward the locker room, and instructs, “And as soon as you get home this afternoon, send me some options for what you want to wear. I’ll choose for you.”
You’re about due for a cold shower.
you: you didn’t give me a dress code for dinner so i picked out a variety…even some non-pink, non-girly options if you want me to be all sophisticated. let me know what you like 😇
you: and jsyk I treat first dates with potential play partners more like job interviews. too many fake doms out there. too many bad experiences.
brendon (hot gym guy): I have nothing but respect for that approach. More than happy to show how seriously I take my sub’s safety and well-being. I hope I can pass all your tests.
you: vice versa. you’re too sexy to miss out on.
brendon (hot gym guy): Mutual.
you: yeah?
brendon (hot gym guy): Don’t bait me.
you: never.
brendon (hot gym guy): Wear the pink. I like how girly you are.
you: thank you!! i will 💕💕
you: okay I need to get ready now if I’m gonna be all cute in an hour and a half. see you soon!! don’t be late
brendon (hot gym guy): I never am.
you: that’s hot.
Getting ready for your first date with Brendon Park is nerve wracking in the best way. The butterflies in your stomach are less a cute fluttery array and more an absolute swarm overtaking the meadow of your consciousness. Even though he picked your gingham-style pastel pink dress, you still have to arrange a pristine makeup look and accessories. You land on fairly simple makeup for you – sheer foundation, a delicate lip tint a few shades pinker than your natural lips, soft dewy blush, generous tinted highlighter that brings out your undertones, light glittery shadow packed at your eyes’ inner corners to brighten every smile – wanting to let your features shine without having to excuse yourself to reapply gloss every other bite.
Once you’ve got your makeup set, you style your hair just-a-bit-but-not-too-much fancier than you usually would for ballet class and add a few accessories. A layered pearl necklace that should draw his eye to your chest, matching earrings, and, ugh, shoes. You have no idea which shoes are right.
Feeling perhaps a little mischievous, you decide to ask for Brendon’s input by sending him a couple pictures. It’s by pure coincidence that you’re still getting ready, wearing only cheeky underwear and a cropped old tee. And it’s simply practical to take the photo over your shoulder in your floor length mirror so he can get a good view of your ass the heels.
you: which shoes do you like better?
brendon (hot gym guy): Fuck.
brendon (hot gym guy): Processing. Recalibrating. Remembering language.
you: sorry bren i didn’t mean to distract you 😇
brendon (hot gym guy): Like hell you didn’t.
brendon (hot gym guy): The ones with the bow.
you: you really do like my girly stuff huh?
brendon (hot gym guy): Guilty. I like the contrast.
you: because you’re such a big mean masculine beefcake?
brendon (hot gym guy): 🙄
brendong (hot gym guy): Something like that.
you: omg did you just use an emoji
you: im already making progress on you
brendon (hot gym guy): You’re lucky this is a first date or you’d be getting bent over my knee tonight.
you: don’t threaten me with a good time 😘🍑
brendon (hot gym guy): Is the peach supposed to be your ass?
you: oh my god. yes grandpa
you: you’re so lucky you have me
brendon (hot gym guy): I am, actually.
brendon (hot gym guy): See you soon, gorgeous.
Brendon picks you up in that ridiculous, gorgeous Corvette exactly when he told you to expect, ringing your doorbell at 5:58. He’s in a suit. Navy blazer and slacks perfectly tailored to his every muscle, no tie to leave the top few buttons of his shirt undone, soft pink check pocket square – to match your dress, you realize dreamily as he extends a hand to guide you out of the doorway. Having only seen him in scrubs and gym clothes, you’re pretty damn impressed.
Right there on your building’s front stoop, he grabs you by the hips and stares you down like he’s already canceled your reservation so he can eat you for dinner instead. He spins you around slowly, devouring every slope of your body hugged by the sweet feminine dress. His hands are on your stomach, your lower back, your hips, as he turns you like you’re a piece of furniture he might buy.
Under his breath, a secret just for you, Brendon murmurs, “You’re beautiful.”
Not ‘you look beautiful.’ No, you are beautiful.
“Thank you.” Toying with his shirt collar, you reply, “You’re not so bad yourself, stud. Can’t believe you clean up so nice.”
He chuckles and shakes his head and threads his fingers with yours. It occurs to you that he might be a little bit nervous; you know he hasn’t been with anyone in a while, so maybe he’s as stupidly giddy as you are, just in his strong, stoic way of his. The two of you are awkward in that sweet first date way on the drive to the restaurant, accidentally interrupting each other and laughing and making too much eye contact. His hand is on your thigh, almost jittery, thumb absently rubbing the fabric like a grounding device.
By the time you arrive at the swanky place in a low-lit brick building, though, Brendon seems to have shaken out his nerves while yours are still a live wire. He’s in his element with eyes on him, hand on your lower back, giving a charming smile to the manager who leads you to a cozy, more private table by the open screen windows that join the patio to the restaurant, a gentle warm breeze uniting the spaces.
Brendon pulls your chair out, his fingers skating between your shoulder blades as you sit down, making you shiver despite the perfect temperature in the restaurant.
Once Brendon’s seated across from you, the manager says, “It’s good to see you here again, Dr. Park; I’ll be taking care of you personally tonight.”
Just as he’s about to hand you both menus, Brendon stops him. “I already know what we’ll be having, thank you.”
“Perfect; go right ahead.”
“We’ll start with the heron point crab toast paired with that pino grigio from Medici. The 2012, if you have it, if not the ‘22. Add the ossetra, too. Then I’ll do the roasted garlic rack of lamb and she-” he eyes you carefully, savoring the awestruck look on your face “-will have the ahi tuna with the spring onion dashi. And we’ll finish with the pistachio Basque cheesecake.”
The waiter finishes scribbling in his pad and confirms, “Excellent choices, Dr. Park. I’ll be right out with your wine and appetizer.”
The moment you’re alone again, you click your tongue while Brendon looks at you expectantly, his eyes giving you a shit-eating grin even as his lips stay flat. You observe, “You just ordered for me.”
He tilts his head ever so slightly. “Is that a problem?”
After a beat, cheeks burning from the truth, you let yourself admit, “It was really hot, actually. Nobody’s ever done that to me. I always thought it was kinda chauvinistic, but you made it…simple, I guess. Like you’ll do the thinking for me.”
“That’s the idea. It’s a high-risk move,” he replies, all amused and satisfied with himself, “but it was worth it to see you make that face.
“What face?”
“Your eyes wide and your lips parted,” he muses, running a finger along the condensation on his water glass. Your eyes lock to the easy, tiny gesture. Then he reaches across the table and touches your chin, holding it between his thumb and forefinger, forcing your gaze upward to meet his as he purrs, “Like you’re about to drop to your knees and sit pretty for me.”
You blink maybe a thousand times as your brain stutters over his words. When did his voice get so sexy? He touches the pad of his thumb to your lower lip, watching with a sadistic kind of glee as you gasp in softly. You both realize at the same moment that you’d suck on his fingers right then and there if he asked you to.
Which means he doesn’t. He’d never abuse the trust you’re already starting to give him in small pieces. Brushing your cheek a moment, just letting himself indulge in the softness of your cheek’s delicate peach fuzz, Brendon pulls back with eyes so warm you’re melting beneath them.
Your appetizer arrives and Brendon takes care to prepare a perfect half for you, spreading the warm crab salad over crisp buttery sourdough and adding dollops of caviar. When you take your first bite, it’s borderline orgasmic. You have to fight to suppress a moan as your eyes roll back, the mix of mild almost sweet crab alongside something nutty and savory in its sauce and the salty tang of caviar working together in a harmonious symphony. Brendon sucks in a deep breath as he watches your tongue dart out to chase a bead of sauce at the corner of your mouth. When he doesn’t drop his eyes after your second bite, you tease him,“You’re staring at me.”
Unbothered, Brendon shrugs. He never loses that familiar almost-cocky smirk as he replies, “I am. I like staring at you.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
“You’re beautiful and you’re on a date with me. Do I need a better reason?”
“I guess I’ll allow it. You should know, though, that I don’t play on the first date,” you tell him, “so if you’re going out with me to tie someone up and get off for the night, you should leave before the expensive entrees get here.”
“In that case, you’re perfectly safe to stay with me through dessert,” he chuckles fondly, reaching across the table to take your hand in his. He lowers his voice and meets your eyes sincerely. “I’m not just looking for some plaything. I date to keep. And what I keep, I take care of. That’s why it’s taken me so long to go out with you; I wanted to wait until I was certain.”
You flutter your lashes and tease, “So you must really, really like me.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Good. Now that we’ve had a little wine, shall we get down to business?”
He straightens up and grins at just how serious you look while still being so damn cutesy. “Absolutely.”
You reach into your bag and remove a glitter pen and the little pastel purple Moleskine notebook you always carry around. First, you tear out a page and hand it over to him. “That’s a list of my limits. You can look over that on your own time and text me any questions.”
Brendon glances over it, tucks it into his blazer’s interior pocket, and laughs, “Christ, I’ve finally met my Type A match. You just have to keep being perfect, don’t you?”
“Yep,” you answer with a sweet giggle. Pen poised, you prompt him, “I wanna know what you expect from a sub. I know you’re looking for something serious, something that’s not just in the bedroom, so I want all the dirty details.”
Brendon leans back a bit and considers it. Really considers it, as if he hadn’t been rehearsing how to explain himself the whole time he got ready to see you. “I want obedience, first and foremost. Make my life better, not worse. Don’t be another problem for me; I already have too many. I don’t tolerate brattiness. I want my girl to sit pretty and obey and be good.”
Writing some half-sensical notes just to make him sweat, you ask, “And what do I get out of it?”
That one comes easy to him. As your entrees arrive, he thanks the waiter earnestly (hot) and then turns back to you with warmth and honesty all over his expression. “Everything you need and anything you want.”
You cut into your mouthwatering dinner and push, “Details, Brendon.”
“I don’t like to worry about what’s mine,” he explains. The way he cuts his food and eats is pornographic. Is there a sub-genre of porn that’s just well-dressed, attractive men having dinner while communicating about needs and boundaries? You might have to create one. Bringing your attention back to his words, Brendon goes on, “Once you’re certain about me, I’ll ask you to put your rent and all your bills on my accounts. That way you can save your money. Hopefully it goes without saying, but I’d add you to the accounts so it still builds your credit and you maintain financial freedom. I don’t want to trap you; I want you to choose to give yourself over to me completely.”
He expects you to push back, to challenge, to not understand. But you just hum and nod and write it down in your notebook with that damn pink glitter pen with its feathery end. Fuck, he wants to shove his cock down your throat right then and there.
Brendon rolls his shoulders and goes on, “I’ll always make sure you’re taken care of in every way. You’ll be safe and secure, pampered and protected. Your own car, a new place in a better building, designer shopping sprees, meal services or private chefs or- Anything, truly. I have too many resources for one man and they’ll all be yours. What I want in return is eager, complete submission. I want to be a guide, a protector, a leader. The person you look to when you need help or safety or, y’know, orgasm after orgasm after orgasm,” he finishes, lightening his tone as he gets a bit insecure listening to himself and how intense he knows he sounds. So he turns inward, to his own worry that he’s going to blow this, and presses, “Your turn, then. What do you need in a dynamic?”
Breathless and lightheaded because it’s like he’s reading your mind, you take a long pause and whisper, “You, I think.”
He glances down at the table to hide the silly smile that parts his lips, innocent and boyish relative to what you’re discussing. You feel his foot lock with yours beneath the table, a silent reassurance. Then he lifts his gaze and needles, “Details, pretty girl. Details.”
After a few more bites that Brendon intently watches you take, you sip your water and tell him, almost coy about it, “I need a dom who doesn’t just make me feel safe but is safe. I never want to doubt them for a second – and if I do, I want them to be self-aware enough to analyze their behavior and apologize and adjust. All I want is to trust someone enough that I can turn my brain off and not worry about all the stupid things that distract me from being happy and carefree. That means they have to respect me as an equal, too, because my limits and boundaries are sacred to me. I’m not going to let someone push them just because of a title.” Finally, you give him the sweetest flirtatious smile and cheekily add, “And, if I have the right dom, the forever one, I want a very pretty and subtle and expensive day collar.”
“I think we’re on the same page here, then.” Brendon lifts his wine glass and says, “To something new and something real.”
You roll your eyes but clink your glass with his anyway, smiling ear to ear at the idea that you might’ve found what you really want. Brendon’s thinking the same. You’re exactly what he needs: Thorough, disciplined, self-confident. Not some girl in over her head. A woman, sure and steady, who wants to fulfill her role with knowledge of what it truly means. No doubts, just enthusiasm. He won’t have to teach you or turn you the way he has with past partners who never quite clicked. You know your limits and your needs and your wants. You’re certain. That, to Brendon, is the sexiest thing a woman can be.
When he asks to kiss you at the end of the date, you say no. Instead, you press your lips to his cheek and murmur, “If I let myself kiss you now, I’m going to break my own rule about playing on a first date.”
Brendon drags his hand down your neck and then places it on your waist, pressing you against your apartment’s front door, his eyebrows pinched together with want. He presses a slow, soft kiss to your forehead and murmurs, “The second one will be very, very soon if I have anything to do with it.”
The next morning, still high on your date with Brendon, you waltz into the ballet studio – and nearly fall over when you see what’s in front of you. The whole lobby is covered in flowers, bouquets of roses and carnations in whites and pale pinks, each wrapped in sheer lace-patterned paper and secured with a baby pink chinoiserie-style ribbon. There are so many that every flat surface is full.
Georgia, the receptionist, raises her eyebrows suspiciously at you as she explains, “Someone donated a bouquet for every single one of our students for good luck at their recital this weekend.” Toying with a folded white note from the florist, sealed by another pink ribbon, she asks, “Totally unrelated, obviously, how did your date with that uber-rich surgeon go last night?”
You snatch the note from her hand and read it greedily. Thank you for a lovely evening. Be at my place at 5:30. Eat dinner and feed Duke beforehand. The concierge will let you in and give you a key to keep. Make yourself comfortable and I should be home by seven at the latest. B. As a slow grin spreads over your features, heart thundering eagerly in your chest, you tell her, “It went really well.”
She squeals with you, “I figured it was that or he’d royally screwed up and these were apology flowers. Glad it’s the former.”
“No, no, he’s…a prince, apparently.” Then you bite your lip and narrow your eyes as you look over the spectacular display, “You don’t think this is love-bomby, do you?”
“It’s intense,” she concedes, then reasons, “but you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Your frontal lobe is done cooking. And you’ve gotten to know him pretty well, right? Plus, you pursued him first, didn’t you?”
“Yes and yes,” you reply, finally letting the thoughtfulness of the gesture actually take over your body, making you feel loose and sweet and floaty. “God, he’s so good, you have no idea.”
She waves her arms around dramatically. “Clearly I have some idea.”
“Yeah, fair point.” Taking the largest bouquet meant for you, already planning where it’ll go in your apartment once you’re home, you tell her, “Make sure all the parents get their bouquets, alright? I don’t want any of my kids feeling left out.”
“On it, boss.”
“You know I hate it when you call me that.”
She just shrugs, gives you a teasing smile, and, just to be annoying, salutes you before returning to her computer and ringing phone. And you laugh instead of rolling your eyes because you’re too smitten and delighted to pretend to be irritated.
you: most people would’ve texted
bren: Did you want ‘most people’?
you: definitely not 🥰 this is so sweet. the girls are all gonna be so excited for their first show bouquets. and carnations are my favorite!!!
bren: Should I pretend I somehow figured that out in a very roman-tic way or should I admit it was a lucky guess?
you: lucky guess is just as cute. thank you thank you thank you!!
bren: I wish I could’ve seen your face when you saw them.
you: ill do a really good recreation for you tonight
you: I can’t wait to see you 💕💕💕
bren: Me too, beautiful.
bren: And don’t bother wearing something fancy. I’m going to take your clothes off as soon as I’m inside.
you: that a promise?
bren: Yes.
you: good. I have to go get changed and get ready for class. thank you again!!
bren: Text me when you have lunch. I’ll be in surgery until about two, but I want to know you’re taking care of yourself during the day.
you: yes sir
bren: Careful.
you: rarely 😘
Stepping into the lobby of Brendon’s swanky highrise, you immediately feel out of place, wishing you’d worn something cute and designer instead of something comfy like Brendon suggested. But you swallow hard, square your shoulders, and approach the concierge’s desk like you belong there – because you do. To be an independent woman is to assert your worth, as your ballet instructor from your teenage years would often say.
“I’m here for Brendon Park,” you tell the woman in a severe black skirt suit behind the desk, swallowing nervously. “Um, he’s in 2600.”
“Of course,” she hums, tapping on her computer and confirming your name. She disappears into the small administrative room behind a frosted glass partition and reemerges with a keyring holding a fob, a delicate enamel ballet slipper keychain, and a pink key. “His assistant dropped these off for you. You’ll need to use the fob in the elevator to access both Dr. Park’s floor and the amenities on the roof level if you’d like to use them while you’re here.”
Turning over the keys in your hand – and processing the idea that Brendon has a personal assistant who knows about you already – you ask, “What sort of amenities are there?”
“There’s an indoor and an outdoor pool, hot tub inside, along with a bar and cafe open 24 hours a day. Full-service gym with fitness classes, wood-burning sauna, game room. You should definitely check it all out for yourself when you have some free time.”
“A full gym?” You chuckle almost to yourself, “We met because we go to the same gym.”
She nods like that makes perfect sense. “Dr. Park is a very private man; he doesn’t do much mingling with the neighbors.”
Another person approaches the desk, then, so you excuse yourself toward the elevators. Inside, you have to press the fob to a small panel, which lights up the button for his floor: 26. The ride up is so fast and high that your ears pop. You’ve always loved luxury and elegance, but it’s always been a treat. You work hard to splurge on the occasional designer piece. Brendon’s life is drowning in details that could only ever be on the periphery of yours. It’s intimidating, to say the least.
The elevator opens directly into his condo, which takes up the entire 26th floor. With the sun slowly setting, the space is genuinely breathtaking. While it’s definitely not your style – you’re soft and cozy and pastel, not black and woods and stone – you can absolutely admire the intentionality that went into the place. It’s easy to imagine Brendon with all his masculine angles and sharp barbs reclining in the oversized suede couch as he reads or leaning against the expansive kitchen island while he sips coffee. You’d bet good money he hired a designer. It’s all sleek and modern, floor-to-ceiling windows ringing the open-concept living space.
You slowly spin around and let out a low whistle. “Jesus fucking Christ, Bren.”
Making your way tentatively into the condo, you realize that lights slowly come on as you move through, following your steps. You manage to resist the urge to snoop more than feels appropriate for being here alone, noticing the details that he chooses to display. Everything is unique and tasteful, hand-crafted, no Ikea crap or mass-produced decor. There’s even a black and white work by Robert Motherwell that you realize with something that blends both horror and glee is an original.
Yeah, you definitely can’t process that kind of money right now.
Deep breaths.
In the kitchen, there’s a curated care package at the center of the island in the form of a large bag from Saks Fifth Avenue. Your throat goes dry when you see your name on a small envelope pinned to it. Inside, there’s a handwritten note. Seriously, make yourself comfortable. I mean it. I’ll be there soon.
Hardly able to breathe, you unpack the bag to find a flat box from Kiki de Montparnasse and a shoebox from Balenciaga alongside a few smaller goodies. Opening the flat box first, you find a stunning baby blue silk robe with lace details that would hit on your upper thigh, ultra soft and fluttery. The fabric is as smooth and rich as butter. In the shoe box, you’re greeted with cloud-fluffy slippers in the same color.
Once again, you mutter to yourself, “Jesus fucking Christ.”
The last few things in the bag are clearly a suggestion for how to spend the hour or so before Brendon arrives home: Bergamot bubble bath, L’Occitane almond lotion, and a couple other self-care offerings. You take your haul through the apartment toward what you assume is the primary suite given the imposing double doors. It’s marginally softer in there, at least. Just as militantly neat and tidy, but there are books laden with tabs sticking out, an oversized plush chair with a permanent Brendon-sized indent, and other signs of life that make it different from a showroom.
In the en suite bathroom, across from the massive walk-in closet, there’s a huge tub with a telephone-style faucet built into the floor, literally the size of a jacuzzi. He’s even left a handwritten note explaining how to use the jets on the wall-mounted control panel.
Comfortable, indeed.
One more time: “Jesus fucking Christ.”
You take one of those baths so delicious that you feel like a different person afterwards, losing track of time and space and being until you’re in a happy dreamy fog. Once you’ve dried off and slipped back into your bra and panties, you wrap yourself in the slinky robe, not tying it, and walk back into Brendon’s adjacent bedroom. Perched on the end of his bed, you work the divine lotion into your feet and legs until you’re so relaxed you debate flopping down onto the California king and calling it a night.
While you’re tending to your skin, you hear the elevator ding, followed by Brendon’s long deep sigh as his day starts to simmer off. Then you listen with growing anticipation as his footsteps trail through the kitchen, stopping briefly to notice your presence, and then speed up to the bedroom door. You sit up straight on the bed, legs slightly parted, the robe framing out your darling matching bra and panties set, nothing crazy but enough to make you feel sexy.
When Brendon pushes open the bedroom door, his heart nearly stops. His heavy hospital bag falls from his hand and thuds to the floor. Running a hand through his hair, he groans with outright relief, “Yeah, I could definitely get used to coming home to this.” He stalks across the room until he’s right in front of you. But he doesn’t touch you. Not yet. The smell of harsh hospital overtakes the room. While he’s objectively sexy in his scrubs, you can tell he’s beyond ready to get them off. He confirms it by cupping your cheek and telling you, “I’m going to go take the fastest shower in human history and be right back for you, okay? Don’t miss me.”
“Too late.”
Brendon sighs, completely overloaded with desire. Only the sight of your nose wrinkling ever so slightly when the surgical scent hits you convinces him to hold his willpower and clean himself off before he eats you alive. He makes good on his word, at least. In the space of seven minutes, he showers, shaves his face, and does his skincare routine.
And the first words out of his mouth when he emerges from the bathroom with a towel wrapped low around his waist are, “Give me your panties, baby.” When you don’t immediately move, he snaps his fingers and extends his arm. “You don’t wear any when you’re at my place; I need to be able to have you when I want you.”
Your eyes widen at the total authority in his voice.
You’re in the shark’s den now.
Standing up right away as your brain recalibrates, you step out of your underwear and place them into his outstretched hand, beyond embarrassed at how hot it is that he’s so immediately his dominant self. There’s no small talk, no mask. Just you and Brendon. He lifts your panties to his face, inhales deeply through his nose, eyes rolling back, and then tosses them into his nearby hamper.
“Much better,” he tuts once he can see your neatly trimmed, inviting bush. He closes the space between you and skims the silky robe off your shoulders. It falls to the floor, a total afterthought. When he realizes that you’ve chosen a front-clasp bra, his eyes burn with lust. He doesn’t waste time teasing; you’re naked in the next breath. As your chest rises and falls quickly, Brendon takes a step back and rakes his eyes all over you, quietly admiring, “Fucking perfect. Every inch of you.”
Eyes trained on your pedicure, you quietly reply, “Thank you.”
Brendon’s having none of it. He takes your jaw in one hand and pushes your face upward, his expression dark and amused. “So coy all of a sudden. Just have to get you naked and all your attitude goes away?”
You give a tiny nod. “Pretty much.”
“Mmm. That works for me.” For a moment, Brendon steps away from you, disappearing into the closet. He returns in a pair of gray sweats presumably designed to send you into cardiac arrest; even soft, even after a shower, you can tell his dick is something to write home about. You stay quiet, but the change in your breathing is obvious and amusing to him. He drags his first two fingers down the center column of your throat, over your sternum between your breasts, and then along your stomach before he settles both hands on your waist. “Tell me your safe words and gestures.”
“Stoplight system for basics,” you answer easily, “and if I can’t talk, I’ll snap once to slow down and twice to stop.”
“That’s right,” he praises with a wolfish smile – an expression you didn’t fully understand until now. “How are you feeling? Comfortable?”
You almost laugh because, god, can he not read your mind and see that you’re soaked? It certainly feels like he can read your mind with how much he turns you on. “Neon fucking green.”
And he slaps you. It’s light, you can tell, meant to test and not to punish. Not really. But it still makes you gasp as your cheek stings ever so slightly. “Good girls don’t swear. It’s an ugly habit and you’re too pretty to do it.”
Memorizing the new rule immediately, you reply, “Thank you for telling me. I won’t do it again. Promise.”
He kisses your forehead tenderly and praises, “So obedient already. You’re going to make such a good pet, aren’t you?”
You nod eagerly, shifting your weight gently from side to side as you await more attention, more sensation, more. “I’ll always do my best for you.”
“That’s all I can ask.”
And, finally, he kisses you. He’s so soft at first, cradling your cheeks in his hands, letting you learn the way his mouth feels against yours. The moment he hears your breath catch, he deepens it, pressing his hand to your lower back to draw you tight against his body. He touches you without any rush. Every curve of your back and plane of your arms bristle beneath his adoring fingertips until you’ve forgotten how to kiss at all. So you just follow his lead. His tongue claiming yours. His teeth on your lower lip. His breathy, low groan infecting your synapses. You let out a genuinely embarrassingly loud moan when he grips at the nape of your neck, where your scruff would be if you were a kitten, the tiny grab so dominant it weakens your knees.
When he breaks the kiss, Brendon chuckles to himself at your responsiveness and curses under his breath. Despite your opinion, he must not fancy himself pretty enough to keep his vocabulary clean. While you reel from how tingly and perfect your lips still feel, he goes to his hospital bag, rummages around a moment, and removes a pair of black nitrile gloves. He snaps each of them on with tactile precision. At your curious eyes, he smirks and explains, “If I’m going to inspect my new toy, I’m going to do it right.”
You whimper.
He laughs.
Again.
Bastard.
“Lie back on the bed, against the pillows, over toward one side. Arms above your head.”
You maneuver yourself into position, making sure you’re actually comfortable so that you can be fully present with him. Then he manhandles you to be exactly how he wants, arms straighter, wrists crossed over each other, knees bent upward. Your skin burns under his complete, total focus. He lifts his hands as if to touch you but then seems to think better of it. After a moment of thought, he tells you, “This is our first time together, so I promise I won’t do anything that at all pushes your limits or we haven’t talked about you wanting already. I just wanna build trust with you and make you feel good tonight. Same page?”
Breathless and exposed, you agree, “Absolutely.”
So he gets to work.
First, Brendon touches you everywhere – except where you want. It’s not so much sensual as it is clinical, which makes it a thousand times more intimate. Especially with the gloves creating an infuriating, erotic barrier between your bare skin and his, you feel like one of his patients. One of his absolutely drenched, fast-breathing, hot-cheeked patients, yes, but still. He holds your arm in one hand as the other draws along your goosebumps. He kisses each of your fingers, each knuckle, even, and then your palms and wrists for good measure. His tongue plays across your chest, along your collarbone, and he presses a kiss over your pulse.
Then he buries his nose in your armpit and breathes deeply. You squeal out a surprised laugh and squirm a bit, but he’s unphased by it. He holds you down easily – your wriggling only makes him fantasize about restraining you – and observes, “You don’t shave.”
“I have sensitive skin and I don’t perform anymore,” you reply. “You never noticed?”
He shakes his head. “Too busy staring at your gorgeous tits and ass to notice your armpits.”
As he resumes touching you, now running up and down your waist, you ask, “Is that a problem?”
It’s his turn to laugh. Almost a bark, surprised and bright. “Sweetheart, there is absolutely nothing on your entire body I would categorize as a problem.” He takes your breasts in each of his hands, expression dreamy and warm, and opines, “I wouldn’t be much of a man if I couldn’t handle a grown woman having hair wherever it grows.”
Before your quickly melting brain has to come up with something clever, Brendon slaps one of your tits, testing, and tilts his head to one side when you barely react. So he gives you another, this one much harder, and gets the reward of a sharp gasp and an arched back. When he gets the same on the other side, he murmurs, “There we go. Just gotta learn how much you like to take.” Another set of slaps to each side. Much, much harder. You realize with a zing of delectable fear that he’s nowhere near his full strength even as tears well in your eyes and you let out a completely involuntary shriek. “And how much you’re capable of taking. That’s a good girl.”
After a deep breath, you manage to tell him, “Thank you.”
And you earn a slap across your face. You suck in a sharp breath as he presses seriously, “Thank you what?”
Your eyes glow with fuzzy delight; it’s been way too long since you let someone have you like this. Like you crave down to your core. “Thank you, sir.”
“That’s right. Perfect.” Brendon cups your tits, then, and rubs his thumbs over your nipples in careful circles as he checks, “How about here, though?” He massages gently, all the while studying every single twitch of your face as you dip deeper toward that submissive headspace he yearns to get you to. “More than that, right?” The pressure increases until your toes curl into the sheets. He keeps it there for a minute, precise, controlled, twisting back and forth, pinching side to side. When your brows are pushed together hard, every wrinkle in your forehead tight from pleasure and want, he purrs to himself, “Yeah, that’s about it, I think. That’s your favorite. But I bet you’ll take more if I want you to.”
He lowers his head, holds you down at your hip, and bites on your breast. You cry out as his teeth bully your nipple. On the other side, the tips of his forefinger and thumb come together to match the mean, sharp sensation. Electricity sings from your tits to your core, sparking life between your legs, making your stomach contract, turning your thighs tight.
Right before you know he’ll draw blood if he continues, you break and gasp, “Yellow.”
And he eases up. Immediately. Licks your nipples so fucking gently. Kisses them with a prayerful reverence. He raises his mouth to yours and kisses you. Soft. Sure. You whimper into him and he places small kisses all over your face. Then he breathes cool air onto your swollen nipples to soothe them and affirms, “Good job, kitten. I always want you to use your safe words when you need them. That’s the only way I can make sure I have you right where you really, really love. Do you need a break?”
“No, I’m good,” you assure him. “So, so good. All I need is more.”
Brendon nods and kisses you again. He starts at your lips but gradually drags his mouth away from yours and further down. His tongue lathes along your jaw and throat, chasing a bead of sweat down your sternum. He nibbles along your sides and stomach. Some of the gentle bites turn into mouthfuls, teeth digging in, earning his workplace moniker. But you never call yellow through it and, frankly, he’s fucking impressed by the time he’s ready to spread your legs. He’s left all kinds of nasty bites and bruises over your torso and you’ve moaned through each one, begging for more, an altar for him to feast upon.
Finally joining you on the bed, Brendon pushes your knees apart. A sharp breath parts his lips and you have to avert your eyes because you know exactly what he’s reacting to. You can feel the mess between your thighs like honey, a tangible reveal of precisely how much he’s affecting you no matter how bashful you might act. “You’re gorgeous, baby.” He bends down and kisses each of your thighs, lazy and open-mouthed, before murmuring, “Just need a little taste of you or I won’t be able to focus the rest of the night.”
Your legs are twitching with anticipation as he nestles between your legs, bringing your knees over his strong shoulders, and wraps his arms around your hips. He’s got you completely pinned and spread with his broad body. You couldn’t move if you wanted to – and you definitely don’t. He laps up your wine and gets drunk with just one sip. It’s not for your pleasure, really, the way he’s purely and simply tasting you. The fact that he has you trembling and whining is secondary to the way your tangy pussy coats his tongue.
Brendon’s fingers dig into your hips as he pulls away from your cunt. He looks almost on the verge of grief as he resists the part of his mind that just wants to eat you out for the next hour. He laments, “How am I supposed to function knowing this pussy’s all mine? How am I ever gonna get any work done again?”
You cover your eyes and giggle, “I dunno.”
“I’ve already got you stupid,” he chuckles as he straightens up again, sitting between your legs instead of laying. Rubbing your thighs with his thumbs, he sighs happily, “You’re so easy.”
“Just for you.”
“That so?”
“Mhmm.” You grind down toward him, craving anything he’ll give, and admit with a pathetic whimper, “Want you so bad. Wanna be good for you. Be your girl.”
He moves and kisses just beneath your ear, at the hollow of your jaw, and promises, “You’re being so good. I’m gonna see how much this pretty pussy can take now, okay? You just breathe and let me know if it’s too much. Sound good?”
You wiggle playfully and beam, “Sounds so good, sir.”
“God, you’re cute,” he muses as he opens up his bedside table and removes one of several different bottles of lube. “I’m gonna start with two of my fingers and then give you more when I can tell you’re ready. Trust me.”
“I do.”
“Good.” With a kiss to your cheek, he teases, “Usually I’d tie you up for this so you wouldn’t squirm and annoy me, but I’m being gentle tonight.”
Your head spins with how much you want him to tie you up. Still, Brendon’s two gloved fingers are bliss. You’re so slick and aroused that they slide in easily, no resistance at all, and he lets out a shaky groan the same time as you do. He thrusts them in and out patiently, letting you get acquainted with the way he touches you, and brings his other hand to rest above your clit, thumb just hovering, waiting for the right moment to join. His palm adds pressure to the part of you he’s curling back against, where you feel so full already you can hardly imagine how much more he’s going to give you.
Your body’s overcome with pleasure when he does touch your clit, having already endured so much touch with so little relief. The brilliant agony of thorough foreplay. When he feels you beginning to clench up, your pussy not just adjusted to him but really into it now, he drives in his third finger. That stretch is easily as much as being fucked. Your toes curl into his back and you instinctively grab his forearm – not to push him away or pull him in but just to- to- to have something in your hands. Something to keep you rooted as desire starts to make your body smolder and wind up.
Stupid little sounds escape your lips as he massages right against the perfect spot inside of you. Your eyelids are heavy. Your abs twitch and flutter. Your thighs begin to tremble. And, suddenly, almost out of nowhere, the words are tumbling off your bitten lips before Brendon can even instruct you to say them, “Can I cum, sir? I’m really close but I- I can try to-”
“Already asking for my permission. Good fucking girl. So good, baby.” He slows his fingers to work the orgasm out methodically. You tighten around him, slow and constant, until he orders plainly, sternly, like it’s the only thing tethering him to the planet, “Cum for me. Show me how good it feels.”
Your cunt grabs him hard at the peak of pleasure. You turn from sparks to bonfire in a split second, heat crackling through you. The pressure is enormous, his palm pushing down against you and his thumb insistent on your bud and his fingers unrelenting. While you’re still pulsing and moaning and tensing, Brendon begins to flatten out his fingers instead of holding them together in your stretched cunt. He’s spreading you as wide as you’ve ever been and you whine out, “Bren, it’s so- so much.”
“Don’t complain,” he grunts back. Simple. He’s completely stern, ready to punish. “You can take more; I can tell. She’s nice and wet and relaxed; you’re just in your head.”
Tears prickle at your eyes as you admit, “I don’t- I don’t know if I can. So much.”
He slows down and lifts his thumb from your clit. He reaches up and touches your chin so you’ll look at him. “Do you need to use your safewords, kitten? Being honest is being good.”
You take a second to think, to breathe, and tell him, “N-No. I don’t think so.”
“And does it still feel good?”
You whimper pathetically and nod through the tears.
“Then shut the fuck up and take it like a big girl.” He pulls his hand back from your face, takes the lube, and dribbles a few cold droplets onto your hot pussy. You whine at the contrast and he instructs, “Now say sorry for questioning me.”
You sniffle back the tears and blink them away and promise, “I’m sorry, sir.”
“That’s better.” He can’t believe how pretty you are with those wet lashes and tear streaks down your cheeks. He’s never seen something more beautiful and it makes him soften. As he once again flattens his fingers, stretching and scissoring them while toying with your clit, he lowers his voice to a possessive purr and praises, “You’re almost there, kitten, I know you can do it. You’ve already got all four fingers. Just a little more and you’ll have everything I can give you.”
Your eyes find his. You give a wobbly little smile when you see how dark his baby blues have gone, almost no color left. He really loves seeing you like this, completely vulnerable and at his mercy. “You really think I can do it?”
“I do,” he confirms with a tender and warm voice. Seeing your need for his words, his encouragement, plain as day, he goes on, “You’re such a good girl. Being so brave. So fucking pretty, too, taking me like this. I know you can do it.”
You sniffle again and nod and, more determined, reply, “Keep going. I’m ready.”
“Poor little thing just needs some more encouragement,” he sighs lovingly. Nudging the very tip of his thumb into your cunt, he urges, “Show me how much you can take. Show me what a good girl you can be. I’m so fucking proud of you, baby, you’re doing it. Gonna take all of me. Nobody’s ever done that before, you know?”
Brendon feels your pussy spasm around his hand at the praise. You sound so damn adorably proud of yourself as you check, “Really? You mean that?”
“Really, princess,” he swears. You imagine him sounding like this in the OR, completely certain, guiding, a teacher who knows everything including his student’s potential. While he slowly, slowly works his thumb upward with the rest of his fingers, he goes on, “You’re my best girl. So obedient. Listening to me and listening to your body. I can’t believe I’m getting to do this; you’re perfect. You’re gorgeous. I’m gonna make you cum so hard so soon, baby, I promise. It’s gonna be the best thing you’ve ever felt when I finally get you there.”
When you take the first knuckle of his thumb, you let out the dumbest sound he’s ever heard, a crooked high-pitched moan that makes his cock twitch. Brendon ruts against the bed a bit to chase any modicum of relief, sure he’s going to ruin these sweatpants if you keep sounding like that. You don’t stop, every single breath and moan so broken and divine he can hardly stand it.
“There it is,” he croons, clearly proud of himself and you, as your cunt finally lets in the bottom knuckle of his thumb, the widest part of his hand inside of you. “How’s that feeling, baby?”
“So much,” you whimper. Your chin wobbles and your breaths are ragged and your neurons are bright and alive. Struggling to even speak with how good and how much and how perfect it all is, you cry out, “Feel so full.”
“That’s right. You’re fucking stuffed. So goddamn pretty. Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” He snatches his phone and takes a picture of his four fingers spread in your wide cunt, your juices and the lube making the whole black glove shiny in the bedroom’s low light. Tossing it aside again, he turns all his attention back to you and instructs, “Now, I’m gonna make you cum again, and you’re gonna squirt all over my bed while you do. Got it?”
“I- I’ll try.”
“No.” His voice is lethal. No room for questions. “You’re going to do it. I don’t care how long it takes. You’re not leaving this spot until you cum.” His hand starts to move again, twisting and thrusting, keeping your muscles so taut that it’s like a real workout. Your forehead is dewy with sweat as he goes on, “I can tell it’s gonna be a big one, too, baby. So overstimulated, so aching, so swollen, so much, right? All that pressure building up, needing somewhere to go.”
He presses down on your bladder as his thumb strums your clit and you genuinely, earnestly weep, “Brendon, oh my god, fuck!”
That earns you a cruel slap straight to your already throbbing clit. Pain and pleasure rocket through you in equal parts. A sob rips out of you and you’re trying to squirm away from the intensity, not even intentionally because it does feel so good, but your body just fights for control while Brendon’s trying to force it to let go.
“No, no, no,” Brendon admonishes like you’re a disobedient dog. His thumb is on your clit, hard, unforgiving, unrelenting. He shoves forward, his muscular torso looking massive, pressing you back against the bed frame. With you on the bring of supernova, he commands like a servant, “don’t you dare hold back with me, you useless fucking slut. Never, ever hold back from your dom. Don’t resist it or I’ll make it so much harder for you.”
You’re half-thrashing back and forth, feeling your brain fighting to stop your cunt from simmering and boiling and steaming into pleasure. It’s all so pent up and tight, begging for something to rend it apart and let in some relief. You’re using muscles you’ve never even felt before as Brendon recklessly defuses the bomb of your body. There’s always going to be a version of you that exists before this moment and a version that exists after. It’s the moment when Brendon Park makes you his. When you give over completely, unafraid and unabashed, to his control.
His voice.
The universe narrows into the pinprick of his voice.
“Cum. Now. That’s an order.”
You snap. You’re a live electrical wire in a thunderstorm, struck by lightning, breaking into splinters and whipping out with pure force. You don’t even realize that you’re grabbing his forearm, his shoulders, his hair, literally anything you can, clawing with full force as all your muscles turn from steel to smoke in a matter of seconds. There’s nothing to see or hear or taste or smell. There’s only him.
When you start to resurface somewhere close to personhood, it’s only because Brendon’s withdrawing his fingers, leaving you gasping and gasping as the muscles that make up your cunt knit back together from being pushed to their limit.
Then his tongue is on your slit, not touching your clit so that you can begin to relax. You’re on fire to the point that his mouth feels cold against your flesh. Satisfied that he's lapped up as much of your release as possible, Brendon mouths at your thighs, nuzzles at your hips, kisses your stomach.
Kicking out of his sweats, Brendon slots himself between your legs. His agonizingly hard cock rests heavy against your lower belly as he strokes your cheek. Your eyes drift lazily up to his. His thumb crosses briefly over your lips and you catch it and suck. His cock throbs as your blissed-out lids close and you swirl your tongue around his skin. Choking on his own words a second because of how damn pretty you are, he murmurs, “You still with me, baby? I know that was a lot.”
With totally empty eyes – empty like a clear blue sky, empty like a blank page full of potential, empty like your mouth when you’ve finished tasting a perfect bite – you lilt, “Feel so good. Just want you, daddy.”
Brendon softens despite himself. It’s not his usual moniker – he’s always seen himself as hard and stern, not soft and guiding, sir and master – but it slips so easily from your lips that it suddenly suits him. He bends forward and kisses you, pressing his forehead to yours as he makes sure, “Color?”
“Green as spring,” you reply sweetly, kissing the pink apple of his cheek. You bury your forehead in the crook of his neck and ask him sheepishly, “Can you fuck me now?”
“Don’t hide from me, princess,” he says, voice low and tender as he turns you to face him again. “Are you just saying that to make me happy or do you really want it? Because it’s okay if you’re done.”
“I know it is,” you reply. Your voice has never sounded so effortless and breathy with him; it’s like he’s seeing the real you for the first time. The self that nobody else gets. You twine your fingers in his damp hair, wrapping a curl around your pointer, and tell him softly, truthfully, “I wanna make you feel as good as I feel right now. Show me how you like it. Take me however you need.” You meet his eyes and hope he can see the want in yours. “Please, daddy. Let me be your good girl a little longer.”
“You’re my good girl no matter what,” he murmurs against your ear, “but I’ve been dreaming about that perfect pussy for weeks, so who am I to deny her if that’s what she really wants?”
“All I want,” you reply, eyes shiny with lingering tears that threaten again. Wrapping your arms around the back of his neck, you beg, “Give me your cock, Bren. Need it so bad.”
Brendon’s fully aware that he’s not going to give his best performance the moment he feels how slippery and swollen your entrance is on his tip. If he’s not careful, he’ll cum before he’s even all the way inside of you. Especially with you constantly keening beneath him, acting like every nerve ending is raw, each inch of his cock met with a shudder or a sob. Brendon hangs his head and tries to take a deep breath as he bottoms out inside of you. He grips the headboard like it owes him money as a full-body shiver runs down his spine. “Fuck, baby. Shit. Oh my god.”
Feeling full and floaty, you hum something vaguely like a question.
He bends down and clutches you close, hand on the back of your head, holding your bodies flush against each other. Shaky and rough, he tells you, “Not gonna last, angel, been waiting too long for this.”
“So don’t last,” you reply simply, “just be with me. Just use my pussy to feel good and late you can use it again or take my mouth or whatever the fuck you-”
His hand crashes across your face. The pain feels so good you want more of it. Dropping his hand to your throat, he chastises, “Just because your pussy feels incredible doesn’t mean you can get away with that.”
You totally unapologetically say, “Sorry, daddy.”
Hunger flickers in his eyes. He flexes the hand that had been resting casually on your neck, fingers pressing into your pulse. “Remember what I said about brattiness?”
You shake your head with a smirk on your lips. “Uh-uh.”
“I don’t tolerate it,” he warns. He gives you a sharp thrust that reminds you just how overwhelmed your whole body is and you realize you’re in for it now. He’s got something to think about besides how perfect your cunt is, which means he can drag this out. As he starts to fuck you slowly, he gives you one chance: “You wanna apologize for real now, princess? Or am I gonna have to choke it out of you?”
Biting your lip, mischief takes over your expression and you shake your head again.
His grip tightens around your throat, stealing your ability to breathe. With how amped you’ve been since he started playing with you, it doesn’t take long for your vision to swim and your head to spin. The lack of oxygen goes right to your pleasure centers as your brain pumps in happy chemicals to combat it. Brendon’s cock speeds up, punching through you in a way that would steal your breath if he’d let you have it in the first place. You’re a match burning down toward darkness.
He lets up for a split second, just enough to let you gasp in a breath, and then starts back up again. His other hand goes down to your clit, which cries out for mercy. The ecstasy claiming your entire body won’t let up and it’s become borderline excruciating. Not painful so much as overwhelming and overpowering. Watching your eyes roll back as your back starts to arch and your thighs tremble, Brendon growls, “Ready to sorry yet?”
Still, you shake your head. This game is too fun for you.
But Brendon has the upper hand. He works your clit hard and fast, about to give you one of those brutally not-enough orgasms, edging you all the way to the top of it. Then he releases your neck, lets you breath, and pinches your clit to kill all the pleasure at once.
He fucks you like he’d fuck a doll, chasing his own high, treating you like a piece of meat, holding your consciousness in the palm of his hand. And you realize you’ve never felt safer with a partner. Because Brendon is studying you every second that he’s choking you. His medical knowledge and his respect for you and his true care all mean he can bring you to the brink of losing vision without you feeling an ounce of true fear. He trusts that you’ll snap to stop him if you need to and you trust that he’ll listen if you do. Which means you don’t have to. You’ve never had such an intense dump of emotion during sex.
So you start to cry. Really cry. The tears break and you try to sob but it comes out choked since he won’t let you get any air in. Your cunt starts to tighten up and he grins at the feeling, knowing it’ll be impossible for you until he lets you breathe.
Holding you tight, he stares you down with sadistic glee in his blown-black eyes. “You can cum if you say you’re sorry. You understand?”
You nod hard as spots dance in your vision.
“If the very first words out of your mouth are anything but ‘I’m sorry,’ it’s going to get so much worse. Got it?”
You nod again, clawing at his hand and forearm now. Your stomach is turning as your organs spasm with desperation for air.
Brendon circles your clit harder, slower, yanking you up to the plateau of the orgasm he has complete and total control over. “I’m gonna let go now. Be good. Three, two-”
Air rushes into your lungs and you’re weeping and sputtering and cumming and wailing, “I’m sorry! God, oh god, daddy, daddy, please, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m- Ah, ah, thank you, Brendon, thank you, thank you.” And you babble off into sobs as your cunt tenses around his cock, holding on for dear life. He’s licking the salty tears from your cheeks and kissing them back into your mouth as he lets you breathe and breathe and breathe, his cock pounding into you without any attempts at holding off anymore.
In the final few moments after you cum, breaths hard and fast as you cling to him, as you adore him, as you mold to him, Brendon fucks you like aftercare. His hips roll close against you, keeping his cock inside of you, thrusts short, wanting to soak in every millisecond of your pleasure. His orgasm breaks through him in a shudder, reviving something long-forgotten in his soul. His lips lock onto yours and tears bite at his own eyes, too, and he’s never felt that before. Nothing’s ever felt so right as his cum coating you both as he collapses on top of you, spent, trying hard not to crush you under his weight.
Time stretches long and slow. All that exists is your shared breathing. Both of you on your sides. His lips to your forehead, kissing your sweat. Your leg over his hip. His soft cock slipping out of you as your bodies relax. You’re completely without thought. After a lifetime of anxiety, that’s Elysiam. To be serene as a sea on a windless day, your body an extension of someone else’s, your minds drifting together.
Brendon whispers something soft and soothing that you half-catch in your ear. Then he stands up and leaves the room for only a few moments, returning with a tall glass of water. He sets it on the bedside table. For a moment, he gently rubs your arm, encouraging you to come back to reality fully. Helping you sit upright, Brendon takes your hand and wraps it around the cup. “Drink half of this. Nice and slow.”
You nod obediently. He has to hold the glass with you because your limbs are so weak and shaky; he does so happily, watching you drink the water the way a hummingbird might, tiny sips coating your now-dry throat. It takes a minute, but you get down as much as he wants you to.
“Good job, baby.” He kisses your cheek as he takes the glass for himself. Brendon finishes the second half in a couple large gulps. Cupping your cheek in one large hand, he soothes, “God, you’re a fucking angel.” When you just burnish your cheek against his hand, not a word on your tongue, he chuckles, “You don’t even know your name right now, do you?”
You give him a lovey-dovey, hazy smile that turns into an innocent giggle. With your chin in his palm, you say like you’re reminding him, “You know it for me.”
“That’s right, baby,” he purrs as he kisses your forehead. “No thoughts for you anymore, huh?”
You shake your head and bury yourself in the crook of his neck, smiley and spent. “Thank you for taking care of me, daddy.”
“That’s my job, princess,” he replies. You’re certain that this is a version of him nobody else sees, blushed and marked and sweet. “Let me get you cleaned up, princess.”
You shake your head and counter, “Cuddle.”
“We’ll cuddle after,” he offers. “I can’t let my girl get a UTI, can I? Not when I’m a doctor; it would just be bad form.”
Nodding reluctantly, you try to stand up but wobble on your legs like a foal. Brendon chuckles as he quickly stands and tugs you to his body. “Hop up here; I’ve got you.”
That perks you up. You stand on your toes and give a tiny jump for him to catch you, arms under your ass, guiding your legs around his hips. This way, you can keep resting on his shoulder as he carries you off to the bathroom. He sets you on the toilet, moving your body around like you weigh nothing, and says, “I’m gonna grab you something of mine for pajamas, okay? I’ll be right back for you.”
A minute later, Brendon returns in a pair of maroon boxers, holding something for you. He dresses you carefully in one of his old college shirts, soft and well-worn. He doesn’t give you anything for underwear and you don’t ask. You’d love for him to wake you up by playing with your pussy, anyway, so there’s no point. Once you’re mostly covered, he tugs you into his arms and kisses your temple over and over.
“You were so good for me, sweetheart,” he coos against your ear. “Was anything too much? Anything hurting more than it should?”
You pull back just enough to kiss him, your eyelids barely cooperating with being awake as you lazily remember his mouth with yours. Into the kiss, you promise, “Everything’s perfect for me; how about you?”
“I’m happier than I’ve been in years,” he says honestly. Nipping a few kisses up your neck, he asks, “Do you need anything to eat? A warmer sweater, fuzzy blanket, anything?”
Leaning against his chest, you sleepily murmur, “Maybe a snack before bed.”
He strokes your back. “Seems like that might not be far off, sleepyhead.”
“Mmm.”
“That’s a really compelling point.” He takes your hand in his and leads you out of the bathroom. “Come on, I’ll make us some tea and something sweet to snack on before bedtime. Then we’ll get your teeth brushed and we can snuggle all you want. That sound good to you?”
“Sounds like a dream to me.” In the kitchen, you lean against the island while he puts on a pot of water and takes out a box of assorted pastries from a local bakery. Right away, you tease, “Did you get these just for me?”
“I stop by the bakery before my shifts in the morning anyway. I like to get a box of something for the night shift,” he explains with a shrug, presenting a handful of goodies arranged on a nice plate. “Figured I should have something to eat here if I was going to fuck you to the point of needing replenishment.”
You laugh as your stomach rumbles as if on command, your body finally normal enough to feel its hunger cues, “You definitely did.”
After nabbing a cheese danish and taking a few borderline ravenous bites, you stretch your arms above your head to loosen the muscles. Brendon’s tee rides up enough to show the soft curve of your stomach, where he catches a glimpse of some dark spots the shape of his mouth.
“You look good in my clothes,” he observes with a warm smile that he can’t contain. “Really, really good.”
“Yeah?” You do a half-teasing little spin for him, letting him admire the pretty curve of your ass and your supple thighs. “I might steal this shirt; it’s extremely comfy.”
“It’s yours if you want it.”
“You did say ‘anything I want,’ didn’t you?”
“And I meant it.”
When you smile, he swears he could look at you forever.
In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund
I fear I'm thinking about talking to a friend about how you want to fuck Lip sooooo bad. like you want that man crazy style. you're maybe a little shy about it, but it's the truth and it's been plaguing you for days.
somehow someway this conversation gets back to the him. and if he's being honest,,,, he wouldn't say no if you asked him yourself. he'd be a liar if he said he hadn't thought about it once or twice. usually just in passing whenever he went by Patsy's for something.
which i guess would be more than once or twice but it's not his fault the dress code is what it is and he might have timed a few glances just right when you leaned across the expo to grab plates.
and well,,,,, it's been a little bit since hes,,,, fucked someone. if hes being honest. so he's back to feeling like a perverted teen, stealing glances at your ass or chest.
in other words. he wouldnt say no if you asked him to hook up.
in fact he kind of wants you to. is almost hoping and even praying that you ask him to hook up.
you had meant it in passing. something just to be said because you didn't think he'd find out. it wasn't serious.
but now it's very serious.
because now, he's in front of you asking if you were serious about what you said.
and you're choking on an answer, trying to figure out if it was better to lie or tell the truth. it doesn't matter, because he's speaking again.
"cause I'll fuck you. what's your definition of crazy though?"
it takes you a second to find your voice. "I- umm- can we talk about this later? when im not on the clock?"
"you still get off at 9?" he asks like hes sure of it and it makes your skin prickle that he might have thought about you more than just a passing glance.
"yeah." you tell him, already coming up with a way to weasel out half an hour early. it's easier to beg someone to cover an extra half hour, you have found.
"be here at 8 then." he knocks his knuckles against the counter before he turns and leaves. and just like that your meager attempt of an escape plan breaks in front of your eyes. no one will come in an hour early. you don't even have to ask to know.
you spend the rest of your shift simultaneously trying not to think about it and thinking about it so much. you'd forget until you remember and then you think about it too much before getting distracted and forgetting again.
True to his word, Lip's back at Patsy's at 8:01. He takes up the spot closest to the kitchen, putting him right in view whenever you need to go to the back of house or come back to the front.
it's very annoying.
it makes the knot in your stomach worse and your tongue heavy, like you can't speak. you avoid meeting his gaze which is really hard because he's unabashedly staring at you.
it's all too soon that you're cashing out your last customer and punching out. you don't say anything when you walk to front of house, passing Lip and slightly hoping he wouldn't follow.
but you've always been God's least favorite child because of course there's the sound of Lip getting out of his seat and following a few steps behind you.
"you never answered me." you've at least crossed the street when he says this, a comfortable distance from Patsy's to have this conversation.
"I didn't think you'd find out." you admit.
"so you weren't serious?" he starts to slow down his pace.
"which option makes things not weird?"
"not weird?"
"like if you're not into me then no I wasn't serious. but if you want me to be serious then... yeah I was serious."
"good cause I was also being serious." he brings a hand to your lower back, urging you forward with him.
that somehow makes things worse. because now theres an expectation. you feel like you have to perform in a way that will make you more attractive, put on a show.
"you on somethin'?" he asks and it's such an odd question
"what?" turning to see lip pull out a pack of cigarettes.
"the pill, somethin' inside you? id prefer if I didnt have to wear a condom." he takes one out and brings it to your mouth. he's such a fucking asshole because you're looking at his lips and well.. it's not looking good for your resolve.
"how do I know you're clean?" you drag your eyes up to meet his gaze. you have to distract yourself from watching him actually light the damn thing. how is this working as foreplay for you?
"you really think I got something?" hes torn between thinking it's a joke and that you're being serious.
"invisible diseases or whatever. how do I know you don't have crabs or like siph or something?"
"why do you want to fuck me so bad if you think I have AIDs?" he takes the cigarette from his mouth and gestures at you.
"i didnt say I think you have AIDs!" you exclaim a little too loud, earning a few side glances from people you pass.
you quiet down as you reach the stairs up to the L platform. "I didn't mean it like that. I'm just,,,, trying to cover all my bases. I've never done this before."
"you're a virgin?" he's hoping this ones a joke.
"I've had sex before but that was like in high school. no one gave a shit about STDs then."
"what, do you want me to fuckin' pinky promise or something?" he brings his cigarette back to his lips, taking a short drag. you need to stall just a little longer. hold your resolve until a train comes up and you can end this conversation.
"if you pinky promise you're clean and that ends up being a lie, I'll kill you Gallagher." you tell him, tone very serious as you eye the wait times.
"i pinky promise I'm clean. I'll even let you kill me cause I'll be fucked either way." he raises the hand not holding his cigarette, offering his pinky to you.
and now you have to think about the weight of this pinky promise. this is the exact opposite direction of not sleeping with him. the exact opposite of do not entertain this conversation further.
you bring your pinky up to his, watching as they link. it feels like a final nail in the coffin.
and of course a train finally fucking comes in. but he's giving you that stupid smirk that is as charming as it is mischievous.
and he is following you as you step onto the train, standing like he's trying to shield you from the rest of the car. maybe it's just his frame that makes it seem like that. it feels like you're brain is running wild now that it's allowed to want this. want him. to be into him because he is too.
"I'm on the pill. To answer you from before." you tell him quietly. his mouth quirks up when he meets your gaze and it makes your stomach dip.
"what about the one from before? your definition?" his brow quirks up a little and you have to look away from him.
"nothing like,,,, super intense. maybe like,,,, a little bit more intense then you're usual thing?" you bring your fingers up and leave a little gap between them.
"should there be a safeword or something?" he's half joking.
"i am not discussing a safeword with you on the L." you tell him in a harsh whisper.
"okay!" he brings a hand up like he's trying to placate you. calm you like you would a stray animal. and it's then you have to unscrunch your brow and relax your face.
"you're like a little gnat. absolutely incessant. it's annoying." you huff softly, meaning the words mostly for yourself.
"you don't mean that." suddenly he is much closer and his voice is much lower, making your stomach dip. the rocking of the car makes the distance smaller sometimes and your shoulder brushes against his chest.
"i do," you tell him softly, looking at the other passengers. you cant tell if your voices carry or if you're just on edge about the whole thing.
"if I'm so annoying, why are you turned on right now?" he's asks it so casually. like he's whispering a joke to you.
"shut the fuck up-!" you shove him, trying to give yourself a little more breathing room. more room to think, because it is impossible when you can smell the nicotine and bike oil on him.
he doesn't say anything, but theres a humor in his eyes that says enough. you don't look at him the rest of the ride.
-
"cute place." Lip says softly, taking in your living/dining room and kitchen. you try not to read into it.
you slip past him, turning into your kitchen to put your bag down. he follows after you, peeking at your room through the opening you left this morning.
he leans against your fridge as you turn to look at him. he feels out of place in your apartment, a weird collision in your mind.
"you come up with a safe word?"
"i hate you." he is ridiculous. lip thinks your words are funny, based on the way his smirk grows
"thats a bit of a long one but I mean-" he stops when he sees how hard you're glaring at him. "Okay. do you want to be less vague about your definition of crazy, then?"
"it's not that,,,, not in like a kinky way. I just meant. you always seem stressed when you come in and I said that I'd let you take it out on me. whoever used the term crazy is very dramatic." you avoid his gaze, fidgeting with your apartment keys.
"really?" lip asks softly, taking a step towards you. "you let me do whatever?"
one of his hands comes up to your elbow, thumb rubbing softly. your stomach dips, trying to ignore the way his head dips to look at your face.
"maybe,,," you whisper softly.
"need a yes from you, sweetheart." he tells you gently, hand moving up to your shoulder.
"yeah, yes." you get the words out as fast as possible, before you can regret them.
and its like he cant move quick enough. as soon as he hears the words he lurches forward, the hand on your shoulder moving up to cup your jaw as he kisses you.
it startles you, inhaling sharply. he takes that as an opportunity to kiss you harder, biting softly at your lower lip.
"you're gonna let me take out all my stress on you?" he moves to kiss your chin. "that could take a while."
"dont care. want you to use me 'til im stupid." you sigh, leaning into him.
"where's your room?" lip groans, tugging your hips against him.
-
you had a very different idea to how this was going to go.
one, maybe two rounds and that would be it.
lip proves you wrong. as he usually does.
"where y'goin?" he coos softly, making you whine back at him.
you're currently trying to wriggle out from under him, elevate some of the pressure. you dont get very far, hes still mostly on top of you and watching in amusement as you squirm.
"no more,, can't do another one," you whine, pushing at his shoulder.
"nooo, hey hey," he raises himself up on a forearm, bringing his other hand to your face. "you're doin' so good, you can do one more."
his words are sweet as he strokes a thumb over your cheekbone, brows slightly pinched together. "you can go a little longer, right?"
the sound that leaves your mouth is pathetic. thats the only word for it. his mouth quirks up in a small smile when you pout, bringing his thumb down to tug at it.
"don't gimme that. y'said till you're stupid, remember? can tell youre still thinkin' too much in there."
your own words are biting you in the ass. that is what you said. you both even made sure to establish a tell if it really did become too much.
"makin' y'feel good, right? you feel good?"
you nod, it feels like all you can do. the only thing you have energy for other than whining.
"just a little longer, 'kay? then I'll take care of ya." lip presses a quick kiss to your mouth, like hes trying to distract you from the way his hips start rocking again. maybe he is. you're not really sure.
"lip-" he cuts off your whining with another kiss.
"shhh, let me take care of you, yeah? Just a little longer, feelin' so good baby."
sebastian (stardew valley)/f!reader | 3.7k | read on ao3 | 18+, smut, fluff, phone sex, masturbation, no use of y/n
a much needed phone call to sebastian while you're on ginger island
𓇼 ⋆.˚ masterlist
the novelty of having a whole new plot of land to work on soon wore off when you realised just how hot ginger island gets. sweat drips down your forehead and soaks the dirt beneath your scratched up knees while the afternoon sun glares down at your exposed shoulders. farm work is not for the faint of heart and that warning from your grandpa echoes in your head every time you get close to quitting everything, but seeing the results of your labour as the sweetest fruit you've ever sunk your teeth into makes every aching muscle, every bruise, every scratch, every sunburn worth it. the only thing missing here in this tropic paradise that was practically handed to you for a handful of golden walnuts is your other half, who prefers the colder weather back in pelican town.
and you're okay with that, really. sebastian would've been a big distraction even if he kept to the cabin on the new farm, because you'd be so damn tempted to just cut the work short and go take a much needed break with no clothes on, doing everything but resting. no, it's better if he stay in the valley where he can keep an eye on the main farm, keep everything running smoothly since he volunteers to take it into his own hands whenever you're on the island, taking a break from his own work. you slow down a little, planting the last of the starfruit seeds into the fertilised dirt and mapping out where the sprinkler can reach, all the while thinking about how sebastian must be back in the house at this point… maybe you could talk to him soon, maybe you could finally take that break…
the sky cracks in half with the booming thunder making you jump.
holding your sunhat so it doesn't blow away on the quick wind, you rush into the house, already soaked through and muddy from kneeling in the dirt. a hot shower… that's what your body needs. get clean, then you can lounge in a soft towel and listen to the rain tap along your roof while you talk to sebastian… hopefully he's done for the day. once your entire body has been scrubbed clean, tingling with the heat of the water droplets still clinging to your skin, you lie down on the bed that's too big for just yourself, your hand instinctively goes over to pat along his side, empty and cold and bleak to see… you need to hear his voice. a storm is not the same without him, without his arms wrapped around you and his lips on yours and his chest pressed up against your back. a storm is just a storm on ginger island, while back home it's magic.
the phone is almost mocking you with how long it takes to ring, every beep longer than the one before until finally they stop and you hear that raspy voice on the other end of the line.
"missing me that much, huh?" sebastian picks up, already cocky, and you can hear the clear line of his smirk in those words, imagining him sitting at his desk with the phone pressed between his cheek and shoulder.
"must've got the wrong number, i was trying to reach my husband, not some random cocky bastard." you reply with a chuckle, closing your eyes and imagining the softness of his dark eyes, the swoop of his hair, the mermaid pendant around his neck that he fidgets with whenever he's trying to focus. "sorry for wasting your time, sir. you sound very sexy, but i must keep calling."
"i miss you too, by the way." he sighs into the receiver, and you can imagine his head shaking in mock disapproval.
"fine. i miss you. had to cut the work short because the sky opened up, i was soaked by the time i reached the front door." with one glance to the side, you see the clothes you simply peeled off yourself when you first entered, leaving them in a little heap by the bathroom door. you should probably put them in the wash, or at least hang them up to dry, but the bed is too comfortable even without sebastian lying next to you. your towel dampens underneath you, spread open as you shiver from hearing his snicker on the other end.
"thought i was the only one that could get you that wet… guess i have some competition there."
you roll your eyes, but your hand feels so good resting on the swell of your breast, you can't even pretend to be annoyed. a gentle squeeze, just like sebastian does to tease you, and your thumb and index finger roll your nipple, making your lips part with the tiniest, inaudible gasp of breath. imitating his touches to the best of your abilities, your palm cups the softness of your breast while you press the phone closer to your ear, as if that will make his voice more tangible, as if it will make it feel like he's the one touching you.
"don't be ridiculous." you scoff, masking that little gasp with exasperation.
"you love me ridiculous." he chuckles into the phone, unaware that the sound is making your eyes close with a flutter, his voice going into your veins like a drug while you tease your sensitive nipple like he would. "when are you coming back to me?"
typical… now you can hear the need in his voice. where he always used to seem happier on his own rather than around people, soon there came a point where he started lighting up whenever you walked by, and then that light became brighter, and after he moved into the farmhouse, that light woke up whenever he did, quirking up the corner of his lips into a blissful smile. but when you went away to the island? you'd think he'd never spent a day without you the way his kisses pressed desperately into you every time you came back.
"if the plants don't get swept away by this storm, i should be home tomorrow late at night. how have you been coping today?"
sebastian laughs, but you can hear he's tired. you can hear his sigh which usually comes with one large hand dragging across his face, rubbing his eyes. "it's alright. nothing's dead, it's just been so damn sunny today i had to reapply spf like a million times."
"a true hero, nobody has ever been as brave as my husband." you giggle, releasing your breast and letting your fingers take charge, trailing down your body to where you feel warmth pooling between your thighs. "and how is sebastian today?"
he sighs, a long, dragged out sound like a long zipper being undone, spilling the tiredness from his mouth. "just…" he trails off and you wonder if he misses you like you miss him, if the house is empty without your fluttering steps across the hardwood floors and the humming while you made dinner for the two of you, if he feels the emptiness like a large cavern that never seems to get warm enough no matter how much firewood is burning because the source of your warmth isn't a fire, but a person. "the days are dragging when you're away… and i can't sleep very well alone in the bed."
you snicker through the slight rustle over the phone. "and how much of that is because i'm not there when you wake up in the middle of the night horny as hell?"
sebastian sighs, clearly trying to make it seem like you're wrong, but he chuckles like you caught him in a lie. "don't act like you don't fall asleep like a baby afterwards, too… and i swear sometimes i can feel you rubbing against me before i even try anything. you're not innocent in this." his accusatory tone makes you gasp in faux offence, and you might even consider defending yourself… if your hand wasn't almost subconsciously dipping between your thighs as he spoke to you, fingers slowly sliding between your warm folds to trace barely-there circles on your clit.
"i can absolutely stop doing it, if that's what you want…" you can't take the grin out of your tone, though, not when it's so easy to feel the vibrating of his voice through the phone that's pressed between your shoulder and ear, like you're trying to feel him as close as you can though you're so far away.
"that's not what i said." he murmurs, sounding like he's struggling to get the words out. you spread your legs a little wider, making space for the width of your palm to fit between them as you slide your fingers up and down your slit, slowly, as you close your eyes. "i like it whe you do that," you hear a little huff of breath, like a small smile that escapes him into the receiver, "when you pretend you're asleep but i can feel you giggling. waiting for me to touch you… i can tell exactly where you want me to touch just by your breathing."
"so attentive." you chuckle. now, your fingers glide a little easier, you're getting wetter as you imagine his fingers instead, so deft in the way they play you, the perfect pace, the prefect pressure, drawing his initials over your sensitive little clit just to hear you whine a little before he can slide those long fingers inside you. "how did i ever get so lucky, huh?"
his chair creaks slightly, you can hear him shifting in his seat. no doubt, he's been spending more time at his desk, staring at that bright screen in the dim corner of the room now that you're away. no doubt, he forgets to take breaks and ends up looking like a question mark slumped over his keyboard, frantically typing and checking and typing and double checking and typing… no doubt. you can picture him how he'd look now, leaning back with his legs outstretched, overcompensating for the hours hunched over, one hand over his face to soothe his tired eyes. most evenings you kiss his eyelids, enduring his tickling when he grabs you and pulls you into his lap, but it's all worth it if he uses that time to rest from cursing at lines of code. you imagine him like that now, with his shirt riding up, uncovering one hip, a little bit of skin, enough to make you shiver and press your thumb a little firmer against your clit.
"lucky? nah…" he chuckles and shifts again, the chair creaking as he sighs, "i'm the one who got lucky here." you roll your eyes at that, already preparing to be clever back at him and open your mouth to say something, but you can hardly say anything without giving away how good it feels as you imagine his fingers instead of yours, slowly teasing your pussy, dipping inside ever so slightly giving you the taste of how it feels as his smooth voice comes out of the phone at your ear. "i'll show ya just how lucky i feel when you get back. been missing you a lot." he almost whispers, voice lowering as if he's afraid someone might overhear.
you push two fingers fully into your pussy, biting back a moan as your knees slightly close at the sensation. you need to keep him talking, need to listen to him speak about anything really, anything that could take your mind off the fact that it's just your hand and your needy cunt sucking in your fingers like it craves better ones, the ones that know how to press all your sweetest buttons until you're unravelling on them like a spool of yarn. but for now, you can imagine. his breath is a little stutter into the receiver, enough to make you forget about keeping quiet, enough to make you exhale as you drag your fingertips along the warm, spongy walls inside you.
"are you…" you blink a few times as your ears perk up at the sound of the huff that comes from the other end. you know that stutter all too well, the sound coupled with his eyes rolling back when you change the angle of your hips whenever you ride him in that same chair he works in all day, or when you tug on his hair as he flicks your clit with his teasing tongue. it's the same stutter, the same breath hitched in his throat, that pushed the exhale out of your mouth and a smile onto your face. "you're touching yourself, aren't you?"
"you're one to talk… i heard that little breath. you knuckle deep already? or are you just rubbing yourself?" he chuckles, but the undertone of his teasing words is a little breathless. no doubt, he's imagining what you look like sprawled out on the bed, surrounded by the dimmed light as the storm rages outside. "or maybe you're riding a pillow, got something instead of your pretty hands…"
"just my fingers." you confess, chuckling as if caught red-handed, which… well, you are. "don't feel the same as when you do it, though. you touch me better."
"same here, baby." he inhales sharply. "what i wouldn't give to feel you 'round my cock now… my hand tries but… yoba, you feel better than anything."
something about the way he praises you while breathing down into the receiver has you speeding up, you can almost imagine him there, breathing into your neck while his arms wrap around your body and he makes you feel how much he wants you. how much he misses you. how much he needs you. so you curl your fingers up, mimicking what he usually does when he's with you, and you can hear him breathe harder, fucking his fist in absence of your pretty cunt. you moan out as he chuckles, beyond amused by the fact that neither of you is handling this time very well without the other.
"what… what are you thinking about?" you ask, breathlessly, as you work your fingers in and out of you a little faster, lifting your hips up to get that perfect angle.
"you."
"be a little more fuckin' descriptive, damn." both of you chuckle, the sound blending into one cohesive melody.
"so bossy… 'm thinkin' about you riding me… fuck, you look so pretty when you ride me. in this chair, especially in this chair, it creaks when we go fast— i love it when you go faster."
"mmmm you always want me as a distraction, don't ya…" you tease, rolling over to your side, folding a leg over your arm that reaches down, rolling your hips towards it.
"the best damn distraction there ever was." he hums, gasping a little just as you hear the rustling on his end, the sound of his belt buckle hitting the hardwood floor as he flings his jeans off, surely getting more comfortable as he strokes his cock with the image of you in his mind. "love it when you just come up to me and make me take a break. make me unwind with your tits in my face." he groans, and you let out a sweet moan at the memory of his lips closed around your nipple when you roll those hips against his. "what are you thinkin' about?"
"right now?" you sound softer, voice weaving in and out of pretty sighs and moans as your digits fuck into your pussy, hooking upwards to hit the spot that has your toes curl.
"when you started… what made you start touching yourself?" he insists, the tone of his voice shifting slightly to show how much he needs to hear you say what you're imagining.
"well…" you start, rubbing your clit with the heel of your palm, weak, slow circles that do more to torture you than to get you off, "at first i was jus' missing your voice… then i thought of how you touch me," a little whine leaves your pillowy lips, and a little groan reaches you from the other end of the line, along with the sound of him stroking himself faster, "and… how clingy you get sometimes… needing to grab me and have me all to yourself… "
"what would you have me do if i was there now?" it sounds like his phone is even closer to his lips now, head lowered and chin nearly touching his chest as he furrows those brows, a look you know very well by now, whether or not you can see it.
"anything… anything i just miss you, want to touch you, want you to touch me." whining into the phone you curl your precise fingers, making your eyes roll back behind closed eyelids because the sound of sebastian's breathing in your ear makes it almost real, and your hand almost doesn't feel yours anymore. he lets out a deep groan, then a curse, then sharp breaths, all of them lodged into your brain as you angle your palm just right, brushing over your clit as you tighten around those two fingers that have you burying your face into the mattress. he's babbling over the phone, out of breath, words disappearing somewhere between his lips and the phone's microphone, but you feel the echo of them in your veins, in your skin that shivers as he moans out your name, a plea to have you once again wrapped around his weeping cock.
for a while there, all that's heard are your breaths quickening almost in tandem as sebastian curses again. you can hardly bite your lip again, for it will go bloody, indented with the marks of your teeth begging to be pressed into the tender skin on sebastian's neck instead. it's doing wonders for you, the way he struggles with you, making you really feel just how much he needs you there.
"i'm close—" you whine out, leaving the phone pressed between your face and the bed while you reach for your pert nipple, pinching it between your fingers in the way that has that tightness in your abdomen coil even tighter.
"i know." he pants into the phone, always in tune with every little noise that comes out of your mouth, especially when it means you're about to finish. "fuck, that should be my fingers in ya right now…"
and just like that, you're pressing right where you need it, closing your thighs so tightly around your hand as your warm walls tighten around your fingers, trying so desperately to keep them in where they're making you feel so good. your throat is dry, moans and whimpers scratching as they rip from you. finally, you can slow down, pumping those fingers in and out of you slowly to let yourself ride out the sensation. on the other end, though, sebastian is babbling, listening to your orgasm happen without him more like torture than anything else, but a torture that sends him over the edge.
"that's it… whine for me, baby, get yourself th— ah f-fuck," he follows after you, breaths getting lost in between the curses as you picture him, bucking his hips up into his hand, spilling that pearlescent cum over his fingers, dripping down on his abdomen, no doubt sticking to his happy trail… "fuck… ah… miss you…" his voice softens, like he's catching his breath after a run, "miss you so much, come back to me…"
eyes squeezed shut, you pull your hand back, wiping it on the towel underneath your naked body. "of course." you promise in a whispered voice. "i'll come back tomorrow. gonna get up early and sort out the plants, stick in all the sprinklers, get all the shit in order as fast as i can, i'll be back soon."
"good… thank you," he starts rustling, it sounds like a couple of tissues he's pulling from a box on his desk, "i need to feel you again, i'm going insane here."
you can't help but chuckle into the phone, curling up on the bed before you could even be bothered to put some clothes on. it would feel a lot better with his arms wrapped around you, of course, with his chest pressing against your back, with his legs entangled with yours. but out here on the island the only companion is the heat that seems to permeate even the walls to the cabin, even through the rain, it soaks into your skin and won't leave you alone. you crave the cold of pelican town in the fall, the fog on the windows that sebastian uses to draw you little smiley faces and play tic-tac-toe on the window above the kitchen sink. you crave the comfort that his presence brings, the warmth that is the person, and not the unbearable air.
"stay with me while i fall asleep?"
sebastian chuckles, but you can tell he was just waiting for this, being needed even after you've moaned out his name while your body shook. so he groans as he leaves the chair, and you listen as he cleans himself up and slides into bed, the rustling of that comfortable duvet is almost teasing you as you imagine how good it would be to lie down under it again.
"go on then," he murmurs, "get into bed."
you make a move. the towel is draped over a chair, and you throw on a loose t-shirt over yourself so you can roll under the sheets. it's all quickly done, the urge to already be in the comfy bed and hearing sebastian's soft breaths while you drift off is too strong to procrastinate. in barely a minute, you're flicking the lights off, settling the cabin into darkness that would make you uneasy if your husband's voice wasn't coming from the pillow where you left the phone. crawling into bed tonight, in contrast with the previous few days, is less of a relief from the ache and tiredness, and more a well-deserved comforting rest. while the other side of the bed is still painfully empty, when you close your eyes it's sebastian that's lying next to you, one arm draped over your body, fingers slowly, lazily tracing shapes on your stomach as the two of you drift off to sleep, snoring softly as the night sky twinkles down at you.
⋆˙⟡ burekforsatoru || do not modify, repost, or feed to AI
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♡ dividers by @/cafekitsune @/uzmacchiato
pairing: chef Luca x reader
word count: 2.6k
warnings: 18+, nsfw!!!, smut!, no use of y/n but luca calls you baby :3 (unf), unprotected p in v, little bit of fingering, dom/sub, orgasm denial/control, edging, angry/annoyed sex?!?, public bathroom
summary: “Let me guess… ‘Too proud to stage’ but just humble enough to fuck you in a bathroom?”
author's note: um, so, this was my attempt at writing porn without the plot, but the plot got me!! the plot got me!! ugh >.< i'll try again. fyi this chef Luca smut has nothing to do with my fine line smut :) also i might write a second part?!?! anyways i hope you enjoy! the wordy peach <3
Seven minutes ago, you were sipping champagne, laughing with your cousins, letting the band’s cover of Sugar by Maroon 5 carry you into that familiar warmth weddings are supposed to have. Then Sydney just had to lean in, casual enough to pretend she wasn’t stirring the pot, and mention that Luca was definitely going to be the new stage at The Bear.
Now?
Your back is against the cold porcelain countertop, heels slipping against the tile as Luca’s frame crowds yours. Somewhere between your third “you’re better than this!” and his clipped “you don’t get to tell me that!” his hands had found the hem of your dress, and silk is now pooled around your hips.
You’re both glaring, eyes locked, daring the other to blink first.
“I thought you were joking, but you’re serious — you’re really going to be a stage? At his restaurant?” Your voice echoes through the tiled room, sharp and incredulous.
Luca doesn’t say anything, mouth screwed shut. His hand is braced beside your hip, the other grazing black lace — the panty he insisted you wear tonight. His fingertips slide the flimsy fabric to the side, letting the cool air hit your most sensitive area.
Your fingers curl against the counter, nails biting the surface, holding onto your anger to keep you steady. To keep you anchored. It’s your cousin’s wedding, for fucksakes. It’s practically a family reunion after years spent in Copenhagen with Luca while he chased, and caught, his dream of being a chef. You’re supposed to be mingling, drinking champagne, catching up, delivering a speech in about twenty minutes…
Not pinned in a bathroom with a needy cunt.
“It’s humiliation, Luca. You’re better than Carmen, and you know it.”
The more you poke, the more you prod, the heavier his silence grows. And Luca just stares at you in a flat, bored way. He’s done with the argument. Your words mean nothing to him, yet you’re still dragging it out. You grit your teeth, pulse thrumming.
It’s impossible to look away. He’s dressed too well for this fight. Black slacks, black collared shirt, hair styled to perfection. Fabric clinging and cutting in all the right places.
Luca looks untouchable.
Every inch of him screams control — making it harder to resist, and even harder to remember why you’re supposed to be angry when he looks like this, and smells like smoke and spice and something so distinctly him.
Then, Luca lifts two fingers to his mouth.
The wet sound of him coating them in saliva is obscenely loud in the tiny bathroom. Your stomach twists, heat rushing even lower, because he doesn’t look away.
Not once.
The connection is so palpable it makes your skin prickle — Luca is doing this on purpose. All because you picked a fight with him, because you dared to tell him he’s better than your cousin.
“This is about you proving something to him, not to yourself." you murmur, your voice faltering.
His fingers pop out of his mouth. Your chest stutters.
He drops them to your slit, peeling you apart. He starts just below your clit, gliding in an endless give and take motion — nothing about the way Luca touches you is careless. It’s dedication. Years spent mapping your body, so of course he knows the exact pressure it takes to make you gasp.
Your hand closes around his wrist, meaning to stop him, to push him away.
But you can’t.
Because you’re not in control. Luca is.
And he knows it.
The glint in his eyes tells you he feels the shift, feels as you lean into it. Into him.
“And if it is? What then?” He finally speaks, voice low enough that it scrapes over your skin.
His thumb ghosts over your clit, never makes contact. He knows your reaction by heart: a sharp inhale through your nose followed by a ragged exhale, squeezed through clenched teeth.
But he’s taken back by your harsh words.
“Then you’re not the Luca I thought you were.”
The real insult?
His pupils don’t even dilate. Just that same bored, ‘are you done?’ stare before muttering, “Mmm, wrong answer. Try again.”
Then, he circles your clit, just once.
Your body jolts, and you try to cover it with a useless scoff, “Well, the Luca I know wouldn’t go back to be a fucking stage.”
A muscle feathers in his jaw. Not anger. Not even annoyance. Just tired. So fucking tired of your persistent inability to understand him. One by one, Luca plucks his fingers away, leaving behind a glistening trail of ache.
Then, he moves.
Clutching your waist. Hauling you up. Setting you on the counter. Slotting his body between your knees. Cold porcelain biting your ass. Breath rushing out of your lungs. Hands gripping his shoulders for balance.
The bathroom is suddenly too small, and too hot. Music and laughter filter in through the walls, muffled but close. You vaguely register the risk of being caught, but none of it tears you away from Luca.
He tips your chin up, inspecting your flustered defiance at being manhandled.
“Go on, then. Define me some more, baby,” Luca orders, voice dark, hand dropping to his belt, flicking it open before working on his zipper. “You know how I hate half-assed prep work.”
Your throat bobs once. No words come. You’re still, silent, trapped by the certainty in his eyes that he has you right where he wants you. Every thought you had is gone, wiped out by the weight of his cock resting on your plush cunt, panty still shoved to the side.
“Let me guess… ‘Too proud to stage’ but just humble enough to fuck you in a bathroom?”
There’s no slow build, no easing in. Just a deep, hungry thrust. Nails digging into his arms. Teeth sinking into your bottom lip, clamping around a gasp. Walls squeezing, adjusting. Every exhale comes out as a thin, nasally whine. Brows furrowing together, each line a whisper of it hurts.
Luca lifts a hand, fingertips slowly tracing them. His touch is light, teasing, and infuriatingly intimate. You flinch, slapping him away.
He smirks a little, daring you to try again.
“Luca, you can’t just—nngh, fuck—”
He shoves deeper, forcing your gummy walls to expand for him. Luca loves how your cheeks puff out, round and straining, fighting to stay quiet. Even after all these years, you still can’t handle his stupidly fat cock.
It’s cute.
Your hand drops to his stomach, trying to signal that you need him to stop, that he can’t just take what he wants. He halts, pulls out a little, lets your cunt flutter around his tip instead.
His calloused hand cradles your jaw, grip just shy of painful. His thumb traces your bottom lip, admiring how lightly it quivers beneath his touch.
“Can’t what, baby?” His gaze lingers, all honeyed and sweet.
You fix him with a glare that’s not really a glare. It’s heady, full of heat and frustration, trying to regain control over the situation you created.
“Is it too much?” His head tilts, just enough for the bathroom light to crown him. Gold-lit hair, sharp angles, and that permanent, teasing smirk.
Luca looks impossibly perfect. Entirely in control.
You nod, a little. A soft mewl escaping.
“Oh, that’s too bad…” He rocks forward, cock devouring the space inside you again. You wince, breath hitching. It’s too much. The friction. The burn. You feel dizzy. Lightheaded. Invaded beyond comprehension.
But it's also everything you ever wanted.
Luca watches, mesmerized, as your face reddens. His finger taps your swollen cheek, pressing just enough to make your lips part in a gasp.
“Adorable,” he murmurs, “But I’m going to need you to breathe, baby.”
He holds your gaze, waiting for your lungs to cooperate again. When they finally sort of work, he whispers, “Good girl.”
His praise liquifies your bones.
Then, you feel the slick drag, inch by inch, of him withdrawing. Leaving nothing to clench. Your face twists into panic — is Luca just going to leave you like this — cunt empty. Sticky. Drooling.
Your fingers dig into his shirt, tugging at him. Your eyes start to water, trying to reason with him, “If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t have said anything. I just don’t want your talent to go to waste working as a stage again.”
You whimper. It’s sad, and pathetic.
“Luca, please—”
“Mmhm, gonna have to cover that pretty little mouth,” Luca places his palm firmly over your mouth, the heel of his hand pressing against your cheek while the other hand locks onto your waist, holding you in place, “Or the entire wedding is going to hear you.”
With a single thrust, he splits you open. You writhe beneath him, grunting words that get caught between your lips and his palm.
Wait. Please. S’fucking big.
He doesn’t stop, giving you every fucking inch, burning through your limits until there's no room left, until he's completely buried at the hilt. Luca licks the tear spilling down your cheek, and lets out a low hum of pleasure, “Fuck—tight little thing still can’t take me, huh?”
You don’t answer him. You can’t. He’s knocked any and all sense out of you. Your chest just arches into his, neck tipping back. Luca uses his weight and strength to cage your body against his, and, he fucks you.
Each thrust is a reminder that he’s the one who’s spent hours plating dishes you can’t even pronounce. That he’s the one who lifted, endured, broken his body into muscle and precision until it became second nature.
“Tell me, was it the 16-hour days where you watched me bleed that makes you think I’m too good to get my hands dirty as a stage again? Or are you just going to miss being the only one who gets to taste my best work?” His fingers dig into the soft yielding flesh of your hip, body angling impossibly closer.
“Be honest, baby. I know you hate sharing.” Luca growls, tearing into the resistance like it's nothing, cock hitting that spot now — your eyes roll back, and your moans vibrate against his hand. He works it over and over and over. Showing no mercy as a hot, insistent pressure builds that's too tight. Too much.
You’re right there, walls pulsating with the promise of release that never comes. Because Luca has pulled away, leaving you a shattered, ruined thing of almost.
A wet, broken sound crawls up your throat. It’s half-gasp, half-sob.
It makes him laugh, a soft, disbelieving sound.
“Oh, did you want something?”
You nod, a bit too desperately. Maybe even a little bit humiliated too.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have picked a fight over nothing.”
His hand that seals your mouth is a brand, a reminder you can’t shake. Each slow flex of his fingers tells you that he’s the one who’s spent years perfecting pressure, and restraint.
He shakes his head, tsking, “Some insignificant bullshit just to hear yourself talk.”
Your stifled disagreement earns you a hard grind of his hips. It’s just enough to make your toes curl, but not enough to send you over the edge.
This is where Luca keeps you, teetering on the edge, denied.
Because he likes this part.
Like the way your hips jerk, desperate, when he pulls back. Likes the way your lashes flutter, the furrow of your brows, the tension in your neck. He sees it all. Feeds on it. He could end this anytime. But why would he? Watching your thighs quake with the need he refuses to satisfy is half the fun.
And just to prove how practiced he is, how effortless his control is, Luca eases up. Penetration becomes shallow. Only giving you an inch, maybe two. Taking his fucking time, making every second count — again, again, again — until your nearly wrecked cunt starts making lewd, squelching noises and you’re clawing at him, whining in frustration.
A bead of sweat traces down the sharp angle of Luca’s jaw. He doesn’t wipe it away, doesn’t even flinch. Too busy holding the line, too busy forcing you to stay in this dizzy, aching place a heartbeat longer.
The sweat is the only thing that gives him away. The only crack in his control. And you’d worship it, if he’d let you.
“I know how to stage. I know how to be a chef.” Luca leans in, close enough for you to feel the heat of his words. “And I know I’m fucking good at it.”
He drags your hand to your stomach, covering it with his own, and presses down. Then, his hips snap forward. And you can feel the faint outline of his cock as it spears your cunt, owning you.
It makes you shudder.
“I’m not doing this to prove myself to Carmen — I’m doing this because he needs a chef like me in his kitchen.” Luca’s throat moves like he’s forcing down glass, tendons standing rigid under his skin. A swallow that’s too loud, too telling. But his eyes are worse. They’re bright with something feverish, pupils swallowing the light.
“I know I’m better than him in every way that matters.”
His hand stays firm as he kisses the corner of your mouth — a mockery of tenderness.
“Do you understand, baby?”
Only then does Luca lift his palm.
“—yes, chef—”
A knock rattles at the bathroom door.
You practically choke on your answer, eyes going wide with panic. Luca doesn’t seem to care, smoothing his hand over your mouth again, steady and calm, as if he’d been expecting it.
“Hey, you in there?” It’s your cousin. Carmen. “Your speech is coming up...”
You twist, a muffled sound pressing into Luca's skin, but he just looks at you. Totally unbothered. Then, without missing a beat, his voice lifts, casual and lazy, “No, she’s not in here…”
Luca smiles. It’s not sharp or cruel, but boyish. Soft in a way that completely disarms you, like he’s not the same man whose throbbing cock is still buried inside your cunt. He lingers, eyes sweeping your face before finally easing out. The loss is immediate, the ache cutting into the space just below your navel.
“Luca?” It slips out as a plea, a question you don't even know how to finish. You're half-undone, wound so tight. Head buzzing, blood thrumming hot in your ears. Desperate for the rest of him.
Luca just steadies you, patient, hands firm as he helps you down from the counter. Your legs wobble when your feet hit the ground, knees nearly give, and it makes him smile again — quiet, and infuriating. He knows exactly how wrecked you are.
With one hand lingering at your hip to keep you up right, Luca crouches low, helping to slip your heels back on, fixing the straps with sure fingers, like he’s dressing a doll he isn’t finished playing with yet. As Luca rises, he sweetly adjusts your black lace panty before smoothing your dress down over your thighs with those sure, capable hands. Tugging at the fabric until it lies flat, until there’s no evidence of what he just did, of what he almost finished.
“You’re fine,” Luca says softly, though you know he's lying.
You're ruined.
His thumb brushes your jaw, sweeping a stray strand of hair from your cheek. A deceptively soft touch, domestic, ordinary. And then, quietly cruel, with the faintest curve of his lips: “Well, baby. You better get out there — got a speech to give.”
Your secret, annual summer fling with your best friend’s brother was never meant to last — but when his mother catches you in his bed, everything changes. Cornered, he does the only thing he can think of: he tells her the two of you are engaged.
▸ PAIRING: Clark Kent x F!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, secret fwb to lovers, best friend's brother (kara is clark's sibling), fake engagement, hurt/comfort, fluff, semi-public sex (three smut scenes), thigh riding, so much miscommunication (guilty pleasure), insecurities on reader's part, jealousy, clark dirty talks, inaccurate portrayal of smallville (picturing super small town), reader has a shit ex
▸ WORD COUNT: 12.9K
▸ A/N: this fic was truly self-indulgent, all of my fave tropes in one place. this is part of @elixirfromthestars' arcade! i played elixir's hold 'em and ended up with a four of a kind (best friend's sibling, summer fling, sworn off relationships, and fake engagement). thanks for such a fun event mel <3 this is my longest work to date so splitting it into two parts - final one coming next week!! i love seeing your responses so any reblogs/comments/likes are always greatly appreciated mwah!!!
↤ main masterlist | part two ↦
Whoever thought it would be a good idea to spend a week of your precious and extremely limited paid time off in Smallville, of all places, should be pulverized. You could’ve been sipping margaritas in the Bahamas or traipsing around Miami Beach with a scrumptious cubano in hand. You could’ve been sitting at home in your perfectly comfortable couch with your perfectly comfortable air conditioning.
But no, you love your best friend Kara dearly, and she managed to convince you and a few of your friends to do the group’s annual trip in her hometown in Kansas. Oh, how you wish you could be Dorothy in that moment and find yourself on a yellow brick road rather than this sweltering airport.
Smallville in the summer is a far cry from your ideal vacation. The closest airport is two hours away and you’re greeted by the sight of a building that looks like it barely functions and hasn’t been upgraded since the Middle Ages. You had been cramped into a small airplane that you’re convinced does not have all of its nuts and bolts considering how much it rattled (you don’t want to think about the strange tilt of the wings). It takes you a full hour to get your suitcase from baggage claim that has no air conditioning; mind you, it’s because there is no overhead compartment, so they forced you to check your carry-on into cargo (an equally cramped space).
To make matters worse, Kara’s work forced her to delay her trip by one day which means you’re already locked in to arriving a full day earlier than everyone else, thinking that you’d get to spend some quality time with her after being separated for nearly an entire year (it’s been a rough year for both of you).
“How am I supposed to get to your house?” You had asked — more like whined after she told you the bad news.
She sounded even more upset than you. “Don’t worry, Clark will be there!”
Your heart had leapt to your throat at the thought.
Now, you’re faced with this incredibly difficult, exceedingly troubling situation. Said situation is basically being stuck in a car for two hours with Clark Kent.
Clark Kent stands at over six feet tall, sticking out like a sore — but stupidly delicious — thumb outside the airport. He’s in a pair of denim jeans and a t-shirt that appears to be fighting to keep its threads intact around his bicep. His long frame is leaning against a rusty red pickup truck.
The moment you push the doors open to step outside, his eyes spot you. Brilliant, bejeweled blue even from this distance. He covers that distance in no time with his ridiculously long legs, barely breathless as your name falls from his lips.
“It’s been a while,” he beams softly. His hand immediately commandeers your suitcase like the caveman-gentleman that he is. “How was your flight?”
You shudder at the sound of the tumbling cogs still echoing in your ear. “Terrifying,” you mutter, “how do you even fit in those tiny planes?”
The question sounds foolish now that you’ve said it out loud.
“Forget I asked.”
His smile is shy and sheepish as he blinks down at you. “Perks of the job, I guess.”
“I hardly think being an unpaid superhero should count as a job. Otherwise, I’d be reporting… someone to the Department of Labor for withheld wages.”
Then he laughs and the sound is buoyant and clear in this empty parking lot. You feel it spark warmth, tingling to your fingertips.
Girl, get a grip.
You fan yourself a little under the pretense of the disgusting heat. At least the air is cooler out here than inside that sauna. Your bare legs that stretch out from under your shorts certainly appreciate the kiss of the wind. You’re able to breathe a little easier despite the humidity.
An act that is short-lived when you notice how his gaze flickers to your exposed skin.
Clearing his throat, Clark stops when he reaches his truck. He carefully lifts your bag to the bed of his truck and straps it down. You eye it suspiciously.
His lips twitch with the threat of amusement. “It’s not going to fly out. Promise. Flat roads from here on out.”
“Don’t mean to be rude but might be faster if you just flew both of us back to your home,” you suggest with a raised eyebrow.
It would make it easier for you too to avoid being trapped with him for a full hundred and twenty minutes in a car with nowhere to go.
Clark chuckles as he swings open the passenger seat for you, even going as far as to offer you a hand to help you climb the height of the vehicle. You almost imagine the ghost of his hand pushing you up by your ass, but that’s just distasteful dreaming.
“I’d rather keep our mayor in the dark about how Superman had landed and was raised in Smallville. I don’t think that’s the kind of marketing the other guy would be interested in.”
“The other guy is really only popular in Metropolis so maybe he could use a bit of a boost from a bumfuck small town.”
He laughs again and you have to stomp on those ridiculous little flutters.
The drive is peaceful. With both hands on the wheel, Clark taps his finger against the leather to the rhythm of some pop song crackling through the speakers. He makes small talk to fill the silence. He asks you about life, about your job, about the tiny apartment you’ve been trying to furnish for the last few months. Cordial. Polite. Safe. All conversational topics that are reasonable for two friends.
That is, until he asks whether you’re seeing anyone.
It should be a normal question to ask a friend. Hell, even a stranger. But you know Clark better than that and you know the underlying curiosity underneath.
Heat creeps up your neck again. You feel as if you’re back in that cursed airport as you find your voice to respond to him. “No, not seeing anyone right now.”
He doesn’t even look at you when the corners of his lips tip up into a pleased smile. You knew what he was asking — and you basically gave him the green light. He takes your confirmation as permission.
His right hand slides off the wheel and lands on your thigh. His very large palm stretching across your leg.
You swallow thickly.
“This okay?” His voice is soft. Genuine worry laced into his question.
Instead of verbalizing your response, you only manage a nod as you prop an elbow on the door. Your face turns towards the deserted road outside to hide your embarrassment. To hide the racing of your heart. The anticipation bubbling beneath your veins.
It doesn’t take him long for his hand to slide higher and higher until you feel his fingers toying with the button on your pants. Deft fingers that pop it open easily. It’s terribly sexy how good he is at that.
He reaches down your pants, fingers skimming over the thin fabric of your panties until he finds your clothed slit. A delighted hum slips past the seam of his lips when he finds you already damp. His fingers trace along your sensitive lips, featherlight, but you’re eager enough that you find your hips jerking upwards in search of his touch.
Your chest rises and falls with the breath that hitches in your throat. “Are we really doing this already?” You rasp, teeth sinking into your bottom lip to prevent the moan from escaping.
You hate how responsive you are to him. How your body’s been trained to respond to him. That familiar touch eliciting those familiar sparks of electricity. No matter how many times he’s done this, how many times you’ve fallen apart in his hands, you’re no less receptive than the first time.
Clark chances a glance your way and simply murmurs, “Missed touching you.”
A whimper actually does crawl its way out of your throat this time. How are you supposed to say no to that? You let your legs fall open, hips lifting off the seat just enough so he can tug your pants a little lower, sneak his fingers in even deeper. He applies a little bit more pressure on your slit, you can feel your panties soaking up your juices.
“So wet already, honey,” he whispers.
Honey. The first time Clark used that pet name on you, you’d told him absolutely not. However, like everything else he’s done, you’ve grown used to it. Your insides turn gooey when he uses that sweet little nickname. Something so syrupy when he’s doing something oh so filthy.
“It’s been a while,” you mutter under your breath.
“Were you waiting for me?”
At that, you can’t help the defensive scoff that spits out of your mouth. “No.”
Maybe.
“When was the last time someone touched you?”
You don’t want to answer that. It’s an embarrassing answer — one that you fear will inflate his ego too much.
Unfortunately, your non-answer is answer enough.
“Been a while,” he echoes your earlier sentiment.
“Don’t get too full of yourself.”
“Why? Didn’t find anyone you liked these past few months?”
You press your lips together. The day that you admit you can’t seem to finish with anyone else, not when you’ve already had a taste — or ten — of Clark, is the day this world comes to an end. Not even Superman can pry this information out of you.
“No,” you answer easily.
Clark’s thumb presses down on your clit and you immediately jolt forward with a groan. His fingers tug the gusset of your panties to the side as he slides his fingers easily along your slick folds. He moans when he finds how quickly you coat his fingers.
“Me too,” Clark admits. “Haven’t been — gosh, you’re dripping — haven’t been with anyone since, you know, last time.” Whether it’s to save you from your own confession or Clark is just being his honest self, you don’t know. Still, you appreciate the thought.
Your face warms again with his words and maybe any other time, you would have the self-control or decency to stop him. However, in that moment, when you’re pent up from your frustrating flight and months of reaching your orgasm only by your fingers alone, you can’t help but appreciate his fingers on you.
You slide down a little further on your seat, granting him access to finally push his fingers inside you. Thick, long fingers that curl that delicious flash of friction in your pulsing cunt.
It’s criminal how good he is at this. At sex in general, really. You know that it’s partly attributed to his superpowers. Clark knows the rhythm of your heartbeat like it’s his own. It’s how he knows exactly when whatever he’s doing is working on you. How he’s learned what your body loves, what makes it burn. He can hear how your heart rate skyrockets when he slides his fingers deeper, when he does a slow drag out to pull a moan from your chest. He knows when he’s doing a good job, but it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t enjoy hearing you admit how much you want him out loud anyway.
He takes some sick satisfaction in making you ask for it.
“What do you want? Tell me.”
“You know what.”
“I need you to use your words, honey.”
Curse whoever ever said Clark is the good boy next door, the one who buys you flowers and opens your door. He does all that and can be so sweetly condescending in the sexiest way possible. While you’re usually irritated by any form of male patronization, there’s something about the way Clark does it.
Like he’s doing it for you because he knows you like it.
“Fuck me with your fingers, Clark,” you gasp as he begins to pump his fingers in and out of you.
Your vision of the road is a blurry mess, greens and browns melting together as your eyes roll to the back. Your head slams against the chair as your hands curl around his wrist. Clark doesn’t miss a beat, keeps stroking you with his fingers like it’s his purpose.
His eyes dart between the road and you, conflicted now that he’s started this game that he has to finish. He drinks you in, the sight of your neck stretching out as you tip your head back, as your hips lift to chase his fingers.
“I can’t— I’ll finish you when we get back. I need to drive—”
“Pull over.”
“What?” He balks.
“Pull over somewhere,” you pant, tightening your grip around his wrist to keep him there. You roll your hips to rut against his hand. The ball of his palm pressing against your clit as he finger fucks you until your brain is turned to mush. “Clark, please.”
You swear you hear him curse before he takes a turn down an abandoned dirt path. He uses his hand covered in your slick to put the car into park and, before he can utter anything, you’re unbuckling your seatbelt and climbing over to his seat, straddling his thick thighs.
Clark’s eyes widen, pupils blowing up as he looks at you. He groans almost painfully. “I’m so hard. I’ve been thinking about this all night.”
“All night?”
He eagerly nods as he helps you shimmy out of your shorts, leaving you in your drenched panties on top of him. “Knew Kara and the others were coming later. I couldn’t stop thinking about having you like this. Or at home. Wherever you’ll let me have you. Missed this pussy of yours.”
Your heart slams against your chest as your cunt traitorously throbs with the kind of desperation that would be concerning to feminism. “Yeah? Did you jerk yourself off thinking about me, Clark? Hope you kept your voice down so your parents wouldn’t hear you stroking this fat cock of yours to the thought of my cunt.”
“You—” he growls, “Sometimes I wish I could just slide myself down your throat to stop you from saying such filthy things.”
A smirk curls on your lips. “You like me filthy. You like me dripping all over you.”
Your fingers fumble with his pants this time, hurriedly yanking the fabric down to free his cock for your access. You’re quick to position yourself on top of him, tip hot red and angry dipping into your entrance. Your slick is already rolling down his length when Clark’s hand squeezes your hip.
“C-condom?” He asks. The reluctance in his voice is obvious. It’s not that he won’t fuck you without one. It’s that he doesn’t want to.
“I’m clean, are you?”
Clark nods and his expression morphs into parted lips and blue eyes blown wide as you sink on him. With your hands planted on his broad shoulders, you begin to ride him — slowly at first as you adjust to his size again.
He’s big. Too big sometimes. You’re lucky with how wet you are right now that the slide eases the burn of the stretch. His thick cock has your pussy tightening in resistance, but you keep going, all the way until he’s buried deep inside you.
“Feels so good,” he moans, “you’re always so tight, but you always make it fit, don’t you? You take my cock so well.”
Your pussy clamps down around him, your pace faltering with his words.
“Look at her. She’s swallowing me right up. She’s greedy, always taking me all the way in,” Clark coos as he watches his cock disappear into you over again, each time you burrow him deeper and deeper inside you. “My favorite pussy. She’s so pretty taking me in like this.”
You lean back and place your hands on his thighs as you roll your hips to drive him in deeper. “Fuck, Clark. Every time I see you, feels like you've gotten bigger.”
“No, honey, it’s just because your pussy tightens up,” he chuckles, fingers brushing your hips. “She just has to get used to me again. I’ll stretch you out, don’t worry. ‘M gonna make you feel so good.”
“Play with my tits,” you rasp. “Want your hands on my tits.”
You know what you’re doing. This is both for you and him. You’ve always loved seeing how big his hands are, how they cover your breasts entirely. How he can be both delicate and rough when he toys with your nipples.
His fingers unbutton your shirt slowly and, the more he does, the wider his eyes go.
Clark lets out a moan when he sees your nipples in the open air. “No bra?” He squeaks. “You went through TSA like this?”
Your lips tip up into a smirk. “Don’t worry, nobody gave me a pat down.”
“Better not have,” he growls low, “these are mine.”
Your pussy and heart flutter with his possessive declaration. You nearly bite out a snappy retort, asking him since when am I yours but the words fizzle out behind your ribs when Clark grabs your hips and begins to earnestly fuck up into you. He’s careful not to hurt you, but tests your limits with how hard he’s gripping you. You’re sure to bruise but these kinds of marks, he knows you don’t mind. You like when he stakes his claim.
His head dips to take one nipple into his mouth, one of his hands rising along your torso, thumb brushing the underside of your breast as he lifts it slightly. His tongue circles the peaked bud, hot and wet until you’re throwing your head back in ecstasy. He nibbles lightly on the sensitive skin, enough to draw out another whine from your throat.
“So pretty. You’re always so beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin. “Pussy feels like heaven. So tight around my cock, honey. All mine. Tell me your pussy is all mine.”
You gasp when Clark thrusts up particularly hard, keen eyes searching yours. Swallowing, you hold on to the last thread of your pride as you resist the urge to cave into him.
“Come on, tell me. I won’t let you cum if you don’t say it.”
“Clark,” you whimper, “don’t be mean.”
“Not mean,” he murmurs, “just want you to tell me that this pussy is mine. That nobody else has touched it. That nobody else will ever touch it.”
It’s a terrifying admission, even in the heat of the moment. Deep in your gut, you know that no one else will ever feel as good as Clark. No one else will ever get you to finish the same way he does. Fireworks and heat streaking across your skin.
But you give in to him so he will give in to you.
“My pussy’s yours,” you cry out.
“Say it again.”
“My pussy’s yours. Only yours.”
“No one else can touch it. You’re always saving this pretty, tight pussy for me.”
“Fuck, it’s yours, Clark. Please, please, fuck— hnng, need to— I want to cum, please.”
Clark groans as he angles his hips just right so that he’s fucking into that delicious spot inside of you over and over again until you can’t find it in you to think or even breathe. The gasp is wrangled from your throat as he rips the orgasm straight from under you, your back arching as your fingers dig into his shoulders, the pleasure crashing over you in waves. Your body shudders against him as you feel him spill inside you, warmth painting your walls as he jerks a few more times.
You slump forward, forehead against his shoulder as he continues to cum inside you. You can feel the cum leaking from where you’re joined, too much for you to keep inside yourself. It trickles down your thighs, dripping onto Clark’s jeans as evidence of your little tryst.
A giggle slips past your lips as you sigh against him.
His clean hand (he knows you have a thing against it otherwise) reaches up to stroke your head as he turns to press his lips on your temple. “What’re you laughing about?” He mumbles against your skin.
“Just— this. We really couldn’t wait to find a bed to fuck.”
His chest rumbles with his laugh. “Well, my ma and pa are home too so we wouldn’t have had a chance until tonight.” He pauses, then says, “And we both know you can’t keep your voice down.”
You launch yourself back with a glare, hand weakly swatting his chest. “Hey, speak for yourself. If I sucked your dick, you’d be crying and begging for me to stop because you can’t handle it.”
“That’s just because I want to cum inside you instead of your mouth.”
Your cunt pulses around him, squeezing. Traitor.
“You like that, don’t you?” He grins easily.
“Whatever,” you mutter. Wincing, you extract yourself from him and feel more of his cum leaking from between your puffy pussy.
Before you can move back to the passenger seat, Clark sits you down on his lap. His hand settles on your inner thigh, thumb pressing against your swollen pussy lips to open you up to him. He watches as his cum dribbles out of your cunt, before he uses his fingers to fuck them back into you.
“Don’t want to waste it,” he smiles boyishly.
This fucker.
“You’re the worst.”
“You won’t be saying that when I tell you I’ve figured out the many other stops we can have along the way — you know, if you wanted a second or third round.”
You’re warm to the tips of your ears. “You’re insatiable.”
“It’s been a while,” he chuckles.
Clark’s parents greet you with a good dose of midwestern charm, followed by a plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and Earl Grey tea. He regards you with mild amusement as you glance at him in alarm when his mother wraps you in a massive hug, telling you that she feels as if you’re one of her own.
“Oh, I’ve heard so much about you from Kara and Clark! It’s such a joy to finally meet you, honey. Come on in. Are you hungry? Did you want to clean up first? I’ve got some extra towels in Kara’s room for you. Clark, be a dear and show her around, will you? I just need to pull out the cinnamon loaf from the oven.”
It’s like a tornado, a whirlwind of movement all at once. A very pleasant tornado. Clark ends up giving you the comprehensive tour of the farmhouse. The Kent house looks fully lived in — well-worn vintage furniture with stitched florals, family photos dotting the walls and shelves to show any guest how loved the two Kent kids are, and touches of an old-fashioned home with typical cliché quotes hanging in frames or sewn onto throw pillows.
Clark blushes when you stare a little too long at the live, laugh, love painted onto a piece of wood above the toilet. “Ma loves that kind of thing. She buys a new one almost every time she goes into town.”
“Wish I had known, I could’ve gotten her another one for her collection,” you grin. “It’s sweet, Clark. Very charming.”
His smile softens slightly as he guides you to Kara’s room. “I’ll let you get settled in then. I have to help pa out with a few things, but let me know if you need anything. You have my number.”
Kara’s room is similar to the one she had in college. Posters of her favorite rock bands, pink wallpaper painted over with abstract murals that you find all too familiar. There’s a queen-sized bed in the middle of the room with frilly pink sheets that you doubt she picked herself. For the next hour, you unpack all your belongings, finding yourself dreading stepping outside and facing the music.
You had met Kara in college, freshman year, and the two of you were bonded for life. It started with a snooty remark from another student, and you and Kara had intervened at the same time, finding your sister-in-arms on day one. Two of you were similar in that you were both bull-headed, a little bit temperamental, but fiercely loyal. You loved her the moment you met her.
Sophomore year found the two of you unsurprisingly rooming together. The two of you were truly inseparable then. You thought you knew everything about her. That was until she said—
“My brother needs to come by,” she groans.
“You have a brother?”
That was when you were introduced to Clark Kent. Before you even met him, you had a strong inkling that you wouldn’t be a big fan of the guy. He was a year older than Kara but he was in a frat. Not that there’s anything wrong with participating in social activities on campus, but Greek life? Yes, you had formed your own preconceived notions about him.
So when Clark finally “swung by” to pick up one of his jackets while Kara was gone, you were caught off guard by the sight of this bumbling six-foot-four-mess who kept fidgeting with his thick-rimmed glasses. Clark, with his nervous smile and constant shifting, was a complete antithesis to Kara who had a permanent scowl and a sharp tongue.
Then you started seeing him everywhere on campus. You’ve seen him around before but now you can’t stop noticing him. He’s the mop of curls trying to shrink himself at the front of your English literature classroom, he’s the light laughter ringing across the dining hall, he’s the designated driver who physically gathered up the drunkards and piled them into the group’s car to send them home at the end of the night.
But he’s also the guy who’s always surrounded by some of the frattiest guys on campus and the guy who’s constantly swarmed by women grabbing at his biceps and running their hands down his chest.
“Your brother’s a bit of a player, huh?” You pointed out once to Kara, your eagle eyes focused across the room on Clark, who was humoring Bonnie from psychology as she yapped his ear off.
He didn’t seem to mind, laughing at whatever she was saying, which had her beaming.
Kara turned around, eyes following yours as you witnessed the atrocity that was Bonnie straight up flattening her manicured palm on his left tit. “Who? Clark?” She snorted, “The furthest. You can’t see it but that man is plotting the most polite escape route. Give it a second.”
Sure enough, the moment his eyes landed on you, they burned a brighter blue. He said something to Bonnie that had her pouting, turning to look at your table, before he made a beeline in your direction, sliding into the empty seat next to you.
“What happened with Bonnie?” You cocked an eyebrow.
“You know her?” Clark raised one right back. “She was, uh, talking about the frat’s winter gala thing.” His face distorted in a wince. “Asked me if I had a date.”
“Oh, while groping you?” Kara snickered.
Clark threw her a look. “Be nice. She meant well.”
“She meant she wanted your dick,” Kara noted then winced, “I don’t know why I just said that. I take it back. I don’t want to know about your sex life.”
His neck flushed a deep red as his eyes darted toward you for a brief second before he whipped his gaze away with a cough. “Anyways, I didn’t want to lead her on. So I told her I was already going with someone else.”
“Well, now you have to show up with a date,” Kara noted.
“Yeah.” Clark scratched the back of his ear then flicked his gaze towards you again. “Funny story.”
Dread sank into your gut. “Clark, no.”
“I’m sorry,” he flinched, “but she wanted to know who and I saw you and obviously I couldn’t say Kara so… here we are.”
“I have to go to your frat’s winter gala? Over my dead body.”
“It’ll be fun! Drinks and food. I’ll cover your ticket, obviously,” Clark pleaded. His blue eyes were shining in a way that made you melt. It was hard to say no to Clark Kent.
That was how you ended up as Clark’s date. That was how you ended up meeting your first ex in college. A fratboy of all people but he won you over with his sense of humor and charming smile. That was how you ended up with the most devastating heartbreak with a breakup that lasted all of one second over a text.
That was how you ended up swearing off relationships forever.
That was how you ended up in Clark Kent’s bed the summer you graduated college. One time turned to two turned to fucking on the kitchen counter while the others were asleep upstairs on your group’s annual trip. This “summer fling” became a recurring, annual rendezvous. As long as the two of you were single, you somehow always ended up in each other’s beds — or any other viable surfaces.
However, what was made very clear from the very beginning was that you were not looking for a serious relationship whatsoever. The last thing you needed was to get your heart broken again when you promised to focus on your career.
So this arrangement works.
You’re brought out of your reverie when a knock sounds on your door. Clark pops his head in, curls damp and glasses sliding down his nose again. He’s a little pink when he catches you midway through changing into a comfy t-shirt. A smirk curls on your lips. Even after seeing you naked all this time and talking like a fucking porn star during sex, Clark still blushes whenever he unintentionally catches you in a… compromising position.
“Um, ma wanted me to tell you to come down whenever you’re ready. We usually eat dinner as a family. If that’s okay with you.”
You finish shoving your arms through your shirt before bending down to reach for a pair of shorts. You hear the hitch of his breath behind you. Smirking, you slowly roll yourself back up. “Like what you see, Kent?”
“Don’t tempt me,” he grumbles under his breath. Your eyes fall to his sweats where he’s currently adjusting his not-so-little problem. “I can be quick. And quiet. If you want to.”
A laugh rises from your chest. “Keep it in your pants. I don’t want to be late for my first dinner with your parents.”
With a slightly disappointed sigh, he nods and guides you downstairs.
Dinner is as you expected — delicious food with a side of chaos. While Clark’s dad keeps mostly to himself, nodding along to whatever his wife is saying or whispering with Clark, his mother peppers you with endless questions about your life, your job, and your relationship with her children. “I’m so sorry we’re only meeting now! I hear so much about you from both of them. It’s such a shame.”
“I hope Kara only has good things to say,” you tease.
“Oh, Kara adores you but Clark also won’t stop talking about you.”
That catches you by surprise and you shift your attention to Clark with a curious look. “Is that so?”
There’s that pink again. Endearingly embarrassed. “Oh, yes,” his mom gushes, “tells me all the time what a sweetheart you are and how smart you are, how he enjoys watch—”
“Ma, how about some more mashed potatoes, hm?” Clark distracts her, offering a massive dollop of her potatoes. “How about you tell me what’s going on with the kitchen sink? Thought you wanted me to take a look.”
His mother is successfully distracted when she instead begins to fuss over everything wrong with the farmhouse. His father tries to reassure Clark that he’s got it under control and that he should just enjoy his vacation. Clark only nods along, partially listening. You know the look he has when part of his mind is far away from the conversation.
You can’t help but wonder what his mom was going to say.
After dinner, you insist that his parents get some rest while you and Clark do the dishes. It’s a back and forth for a bit, debating on whether guests should be doing chores, debating on whether you’re guests at all. Thankfully, you win when Clark manages to urge them out of the kitchen. Unfortunately, Clark is the actual winner when he also pushes you out of there for you to get cleaned up
You do a full scrubdown, washing away all the grease from the flight. The water is warm on your skin, much needed after a long day. You almost slide yourself into Kara’s mattress to sleep when you realize Clark missed one part of his tour.
So you tiptoe down the hall, careful not to wake the Kents with the creaking beneath your footsteps as you sneak into Clark’s room, closing the door behind you.
He has a towel wrapped around his waist, chiseled, bare chest on full display, as he frowns at his phone. He looks up, fumbling with the device when he sees you. His arms quickly go to cover his stomach and his legs, as if he’s at risk of exposing an ankle to a Victorian lady.
You roll your eyes. He clears his throat. “What’re you doing here?”
“You never showed me your room, I wanted to see if you had anything embarrassing in here. Like Superman plushies or something. Or your old porn collection. Maybe a Playboy or two.”
“I don’t… have any of those,” Clark says, pink to his ears.
“Sure, you’re telling me if I look in that drawer over there that I won’t find a couple of risque magazines?” You begin drifting in that direction and Clark is immediately in your path. You’re face-to-face with his pecs.
“Take my word for it.”
Sighing, you cave and instead wander around the rest of the room. It’s a quaint room. Small bed that you’re not even sure would fit him. Two small bookshelves with some reference volumes and novels you’ve heard him talk about before. Giant poster of the Mighty Crabjoys who Clark insists is very punk rock. Then there are a few trophies for a spelling bee, debate club, and a science fair — none for his athleticism, because you know for sure Clark would never use his gifted powers for selfish purposes. His desk has an ancient monitor that looks like a stack of brick and more books — comic books, more novels, and CDs (no doubt of the Mighty Crabjoys).
It’s simple and sweet. Kind of like him.
While you’re busy absorbing every inch of his bedroom, Clark has crept up behind you. His arms wind around your waist, lips pasting on your neck. You instinctively tilt your head, a moan bubbling up your throat. “Clark, your parents are down the hall,” you murmur.
“I can be quiet. I’ll make sure you are too,” he whispers as his hands begin to wander. One to cover your mouth and the other going between your legs. “I’ll make you feel good, honey.”
And that he does.
Your second day in Smallville starts off early. And warm. Incredibly, horribly warm. Your eyes flutter open to the wide expanse of creamy skin. Creamy skin on a very, very wide chest. Grunting, you try to push against him, to get his hefty arm off you, but he doesn’t even budge.
Clark grumbles quietly, tucking you deeper into his chest. “Sleep.”
“Clark,” you whisper-yell, “come on. I gotta get back to the room.”
“You’re already in a room,” he mumbles.
You peek up only to find him still with his eyes closed. “Your parents—”
As if on cue, your worst nightmare plays out in real time. You hear the creak first. You try not to panic, praying that it’s someone walking away from the door rather than towards it. But then you hear the knob twist. You feel Clark stiffen in real time, his entire body going taut like a board as his eyes slam open. The two of you don’t move fast enough; in fact, your legs are still tangled together when the door swings inwards.
“Clark, honey—” his mom’s words die out, undoubtedly when her eyes land on not one but two bodies in the very tiny bed that barely fits her son. Clark holds you in closer, tugging the blanket higher to cover your bare back. Your shirt is abandoned somewhere in the room — along with your underwear that hopefully isn’t visible to his poor mother’s eyes. Thankfully, you’re not facing the door, so you don’t have to subject yourself to whatever disappointed face she’s making. “What in the—”
“Ma! Why didn’t you knock first?” Clark coughs, sliding up only to bury you deeper under the blanket.
“Well, I wasn’t expecting you to have company at this hour, Clark.” There’s a sternness to her words that sends shivers snaking up your spine.
Not even a full twenty-four hours and you’ve managed to ruin your entire reputation with his mom. But if you could just explain this, then maybe—
“We’re engaged, Ma. Alright. We’re engaged!”
What the ever-loving fuck—
“Engaged?” Her tone has shifted significantly, delight clinging to every letter. “Oh my, oh goodness, what wonderful news! I want to say I didn’t see it coming but I did! My boy did talk about you all the time so it’s not much of a surprise.”
“I do not, Ma,” Clark retorts quickly.
She barely pays him any mind. “I have to tell your pa. This is exciting news! My first son! Engaged!” Then she’s scampering out of the room and Clark can only call out, “I’m your only son, Ma!”
The moment she’s out of earshot, your hands immediately fly.
“Ow! Ow! Stop that! Come on, stop it!” Clark flinches as you continue to barrage him with smacks from all angles. Not that it actually hurts. His hands immediately whip out to pin you down, his body hovering over yours. Your chest rises with every heaving breath while Clark just frowns at you, probably concerned that you’ve hurt yourself in your fruitless attempt to hurt him. “Are you done?”
Even in this situation, you can feel that familiar heat stirring between your legs. Clark’s handsome face above you, his one hand pinning you down, the other one on your hip, his stupid, big, beefy chest in front of your face. You hate it.
Unfortunately, this means Clark picks up on your heartbeat, the way your blood rushes beneath your skin at the sight of him.
His lips tip up. “Good?”
“Why in the hell would you tell your mom that we’re engaged?”
“I love my ma. Wonderful woman. Loves everyone dearly. Love is love, she believes in. She’s all about love.”
“So you tell her we’re engaged?"
Clark sighs, “Even with all that, she is very much still an old-fashioned woman from the Midwest. She would not approve of me… bedding a woman outside of wedlock. She would never forgive me if she knew what I’ve been doing.”
Or who he’s been doing — you.
“Oh my god, Clark.”
“I’m sorry!”
“Because you don’t want your mom to know that you stick our dick inside girls before marriage, you drag me into this and act like we’re getting married?”
Clark frowns, lips pinching together disapprovingly. “Girl. One girl. You. And yes, I panicked, I’m sorry. It’ll just be for this trip, alright. We’ll… explain it all away after.”
Another protest sits on the tip of your tongue, but the look on his face reduces you into a puddle. A puddle that molds according to whatever container Clark pours you into.
“Fine, okay, but what are we going to tell Kara? Or Lois and Jimmy when they arrive?”
He opens his mouth then promptly closes it. Thought so.
“We should think fast because I know for a fact Kara’s supposed to come in anytime now—”
Then you hear the screech, followed by the hurried footsteps, followed by the door once again banging open against the wall with the brute force of her strength. You’re surprised it’s still on its hinges.
And there she is.
“What the hell, dude? You’re engaged to him?”
Clark gives the two of you some space; that is, after he kicks Kara out long enough for the two of you to be decent.
This is the first time the two of you have ever woken up together.
In the years you’ve slept together, the countless nights you’ve spent in a pile of messy limbs, this is the first time.
The awkwardness that follows hangs heavy in the air.
“I’ll, um, I’ll give you time with Kara. I’m going to calm my parents down first, tell them not to overwhelm you. I’ll see you later?”
He says it like a question, like he isn’t sure if you would even see him again after this incident. And you know that it’s mainly his fault but you should’ve also been more careful. You knew what you were getting yourself into when you snuck in, you knew what you were looking for when you went to find him last night.
“Yes, Clark, I’ll see you later.”
Mild relief sinks into his features as he nods and exits the room.
It takes a bit of time to get Kara to stop hyperventilating or talking for even a second for you to get a word in. She’s still reeling at the fact that she saw her best friend and her brother in bed. Together. Naked. She may have also attempted to rinse her eyes with bleach.
After talking her off the ledge, you finally give her the basic answers.
“Yes, I’ve been fucking your brother.”
“No, we’re not dating.”
“No, Kara, how would we be actually engaged if we weren’t dating?”
Lois and Jimmy arrive shortly after and you thankfully get some reprieve from Clark when he goes to pick them up. Fortunately, Clark gives them the quick SparkNotes version of what transpired this morning. Unfortunately, you have to do the full run-down to once again emphasize that you are not actually engaged to Clark Kent.
Dinner is only an awkward affair for the people in the know. Clark’s parents remain blissfully ignorant, instead focusing on gushing about how thrilled they are that Clark has found somebody.
“You’re the first girl he’s ever brought home. It’s only right that you’re his fiancée! Now, I want to hear it from both of you — when did this all start? How did you know you were in love?”
Kara chokes on her chicken. Lois and Jimmy share wary looks. You shoot her a dirty look. Clark coughs, eyes sliding over to you for a nanosecond before returning to his mom. “Love at first sight when I saw her that first time.” Clark should be an actor, he sounds terribly convincing.
All you can say is “same.”
Clark kicks you under the table and you have to swallow your yelp. A dirty glare his way does nothing to deter him when he gives you a look that insists you give his mom an “actual” answer.
You wrack your brain. Beyond the good sex, Clark has mostly existed in your periphery. He’s Kara’s brother. Lois’ best friend. Jimmy’s partner in crime.
But he’s always been just Clark to you.
You just happened to be smart enough to put two and two together on him and Big Blue and, for some reason, that brought you closer.
But if you were to pick a point in which you could were to fall for Clark Kent, it would be that.
“I think it was around the same time. A first year was struggling through orientation week. First week jitters. Clark was an orientation leader at the time. He didn’t have to but he stuck with that kid almost that entire week. Saw him invite the kid to join for lunches with his friends, encourage him to make friends. It was sweet.”
Mrs. Kent looks absolutely awed. She whispers about how endearing that is.
However, all you can feel is the weight of Clark’s gaze on you. Steady, heavy. You risk a glance up.
His eyes are soft, a little misty if you squint. Lips with a slight up curve.
“I don’t know if I remember you back then.”
Heat kisses your cheeks. “That was before we were introduced.”
“You knew me?”
“Hard for you to not stand out as a six-foot non-football player.”
Clark chuckles.
“That’s so very romantic, dear. I’m so glad to hear,” his mom coos, “now all of you off to bed. It’s been quite a day, hasn’t it? So much good news! And you two should stay together — future newlyweds!”
You choke the same time Kara protests. “But she’s rooming with me!”
Needless to say, Kara doesn’t win this fight and, while Lois gives you a sympathetic look as she enters Kara’s room, you’re suddenly being shoved back into Clark’s room. The same room that got you into this mess to begin with.
“Clark, we need to get our stories straight if we want to be convincing.”
“Hmm, sure.”
“We need to talk about when we started dating and when you proposed — not to mention how you proposed! And the details matter, you know, so we should— are you even listening?”
Clark hums again, clearly not listening. “Sure, yeah. We should talk about it.”
He’s taking one step towards you then another and another until the back of your knees hit the bed. “Clark,” you warn, “talk.”
He ducks his head, brushing his lips against yours. His proximity is intoxicating. What were you saying again? Something about talking.
“Fell in love with me before you even knew me, huh? That’s cute,” he murmurs in a breath that you sharply inhale.
You bite back your embarrassment. “It’s just a story.”
“But you—” kiss “—noticed—” kiss “—me.”
“It was just, um, I was only, mmm, answering…” Your words trail off as Clark navigates his mouth south along your neck, laying you down on his bed, as he drops to his knees, hands parting your legs. “Clark, we need— ah.”
“Did so good today, honey,” Clark mutters, pressing wet kisses up your bare inner thigh. His teeth nip at your skin. “Now, let me take good care of you tonight.”
Your body is still sore and tingling when you wake up the next morning. When you stretch your hand over, you find the other side of the bed cool.
You pad out through the creaky front door to find three of your friends enjoying the crisp, unpolluted air of Smallville with cups of coffee, ones that Lois doesn’t have to douse with a whole can of sugar. Clark is still nowhere to be seen.
“Good morning, sunshine,” Kara yawns.
“Morning,” you mumble quietly. “Has anyone seen Clark?”
“He’s helping out at the barn,” Lois answers first, eyeing you with a strange twinkle in her eye. “Better yet, how about you tell us how long you and Clark plan on being engaged? Are we invited to the wedding?”
You give her a look. “If I ever get married, please know I’ve been kidnapped and cloned.”
“Is it really so bad?”
Cocking an eyebrow at her, you ask, “You of all people are saying that? Miss Independent?”
“Hey, I am voluntarily a solitary creature.”
“That’s because she bites the head off anyone who tries to approach her,” Jimmy chimes in, then turns back to you, “Clark’s not a bad pick. You know, if you were to get married.”
“No, he’s not,” you mutter — and it’s a truth that just slips out.
When you look up, Kara’s got her eyes narrowed at you but Lois — she’s got a curious yet strangely warm look in her gaze. It’s not an expression that you expect to see from her.
And Jimmy, well, he’s still half dizzy over the fact that you and Clark are fucking.
“I need to talk to him, we need to get our stories straight,” you clear your throat, glance wandering over to the barn some distance away.
“You guys still haven’t discussed that?”
“No, I tried talking to him last night but we got—” The ghost of Clark’s curls between your legs, soft strands tickling your inner thighs. The hot, wet drag of his tongue between your folds. His muffled moans, nose glistening.
“You taste like nectar from the gods.”
“I don’t wanna know!” Kara yelps, slapping her hands over her ears. “I see your face and I don’t wanna hear it. While I enjoy hearing about your sexual encounters, I don’t want to hear about my brother’s.”
You cough again, ignoring the warmth that’s flooded your cheeks. “Right, anyway, I’ll go look for him.”
While you’ve never experienced country living, you imagine this is close to what it’s like. The unappetizing aroma of manure, the constant croaking of nature, and the sight of Clark Kent in overalls.
Nothing but overalls.
Shining golden skin. Not a single drop of sweat. Curls mussed up only from the heat, but his breathing is stable even as he lifts bags of soil on his shoulder. Hundreds of pounds. Biceps flexing, veins taut.
Fuck.
“You’re awake,” he brightens when he sees you, dropping the bags off to the side. “How’d you sleep?”
Your brain short-circuits when he dusts his hands off. Now that there are no bags in the way, you can see everything. Broad, round shoulders. The curves of his arms. Lines running down the length of his forearm, you can practically taste the texture on your tongue. When his overalls shift just right, you get a glimpse of his dusky nipple that you’re desperately needing to wrap your lips around.
All you can picture is how good it would be to put your hands on his shoulders, bolstering you up while he presses up against you.
“You’re thinking what I’m thinking.”
Clark’s in front of you. His fingers curving around the back of your neck, thumb on your jaw to tilt your face up. His usually bright blue eyes are dark, pupils swallowing his irises.
“We should—” your breath hitches as his thumb goes down, pressing down on your pulse point on your neck. It jumps. You know he feels it.
“I can hear your heart racing,” Clark murmurs. “I like hearing it. I like knowing what you like — and you like my hand on you.”
“Clark, please,” you rasp.
“What do you need?”
“You.”
“How do you want me?”
You swallow, the image so vivid in your mind, like it’s a memory. “Holding me up.” You barely get the words out when Clark wrangles your legs around him, holding you up firmly with one arm as his other hand touches your cheek.
“What now?”
“I want you. Inside.”
“I can do that,” he smiles, leaning down to suckle lightly on your neck. “Anything else?”
“Must I tell you everything?” You grunt.
“I know what you want. I just like hearing you ask for it.”
With your lips pursed in defiance, you cross your arms over your chest. “If you ask me one more time—”
A yelp is wrenched from your throat when he finally (finally) brushes his thumb over your sensitive nipple peaking through the thin cotton of your shirt.
He gropes you gently, somehow manhandling you in a way that makes you feel desirable rather than disgusting. His blue eyes are shadowed, drinking in the way you shiver with every tug, every pinch.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs to the wind.
Clark tugs the shirt over your head, leaving you completely topless. Your arms immediately wind around your body in embarrassment, but he moves faster to extract them and deliver you a chiding look.
You’re sheepish when you tell him, “Someone might see us.”
“Mhmm, let them. I’m taking care of my fiancée.” His lips tug into an amused smirk when you roll your eyes. “Don’t be a brat.”
“Please, you like brats.”
“You know me so well.”
He dives forward and takes your tits into your mouth, showering them with cautious but delicious attention. His tongue is hot on your skin. You throw your head back as he drags his lips across your neck.
With swift hands, your shorts join your shirt in the pile of hay and Clark has unbuttoned his overalls to fall at his hips. His mouth stays on you the entire time — sweet and spicy at the same time.
Greedy hands lift you slightly higher, only to position you right above his straining cock. The vein in his neck jumps as he grits his teeth.
Clark eases you onto his cock, moving you up and down along his length like a toy, like you’re his personal fleshlight. Your pussy stretches around him, soaking his cock until you’re a whining mess.
“‘M gonna need you to keep it down,” he grunts quietly, neck flushed red as he bites down his own moan.
On cue, and as if to prove a point, a moan crawls up your throat. Clark’s hand flies up to slap over your face. Large palm over your mouth, your eyes wide at him. A whimper slides up your throat at the stern, scolding expression on his face.
“Honey, what did I just say?”
Your pussy clenches around him. His words are almost demeaning, but the gentleness with which they are delivered has you shivering and melting into his touch. “S-sorry,” you stutter pathetically, “I‘m sorry.”
“I know,” he whispers, “I know, but I need you to be quiet, okay. I don’t need my parents coming out and seeing us like this. They might make us marry on the spot.”
Heat spreads throughout every nerve in your body at his comment. It’s a joke, you know it is, but the idea of Clark claiming you as his with his cock buried inside you, painting you in bridal white inside out, has you tightening around him.
“Is that what you want?” Clark murmurs softly, his blue eyes twinkle with the kind of mischief that has your fingers tingling.
“No,” you scoff a little too quickly.
“Could put you in a dress. Marry you in this barn right now. Afterwards, I’ll take you outside against the walls while my family’s in here celebrating us. We’ll consummate our marriage.”
The image is painted so vividly in the back of your mind. You in a simple dress, hiked up, Clark fucking you into oblivion against the walls outside. Good god.
“I can feel her tightening around me, honey,” Clark chuckles. “She likes the idea.”
“Stop being silly,” you clear your throat, “you gonna fuck me properly or what?”
He mutters something about your mouth before fucking you in earnest once more. His thrusts are sloppy but no less powerful, his desire leaks through his stuttered hips, the uneven staccato of his breaths.
Pleasure builds and twists, coiling tight inside your stomach as Clark’s grip remains firm on you. Moans continue to pour from your lips like prayers to the god before you. He slides his hand up your throat again, squeezing gently, before bypassing it and covering your mouth once more.
“Gonna need you to keep quiet, okay. I love hearing your pretty moans but I can’t share that with anyone else. Can’t have my parents coming out here and seeing you like this. I can’t have them thinking you’re a filthy little minx, spreading your legs for me anytime, anywhere.”
Your eyes roll to the back of your head as another groan chases your tongue. His name is muffled behind his hand and you gasp for breath when Clark gives you some room to inhale.
“She feels so good around me. So tight. She’s been waiting for me all morning. Greedy thing, isn’t she? Fed her so much last night and she still wants more.”
“C-Clark, please. Shit. Oh fuck.”
“So good to me. I have so much to give her, she knows that, doesn’t she? That’s why you came looking for me. Wanted one more time even after last night. Maybe I’ll taste myself on you later.”
Jesus Christ. This man has a way of making you picture the most deliciously repulsive images in your mind. Him cumming inside you, his face between your legs, licking you clean until there’s no trace of him left. Maybe even coming back up and kissing you. The taste of him tangled in your tongues.
Clark’s hands tighten. His grunts shorten. His pleas desperate.
Before long, you’re coming apart in his hands, Clark tightens his hold around your jaw to muffle the sound of your cries as he spills inside you. He buries his own moans into your neck as he presses you deeper against the wooden beam. With how hard he fucked you, you’re surprised this barn is still standing. You had felt the pillar rattling behind you.
He huffs a breath before leaning backwards. His hand reaches up to brush away the sweat-dampened strands of your hair from your face. “Are you okay? Did I go too hard?”
Even after years of this arrangement, Clark is always so careful. You know he holds back his strength when he’s screwing your brains out. He could go a lot harder and sometimes you wonder what it would feel like for his patience to snap, for him to fuck you with no abandon.
You don’t think you’ll survive that.
But you also think you would deliriously enjoy that.
“What’re you thinking about?” Clark murmurs, “Did I hurt you?”
“No,” you swiftly say, “just— nothing.” Warmth floods your cheeks again. You’ve only just finished getting your brains turned to mush and here you are thinking about how much harder he could go.
“You’re thinking about something.”
“I’m thinking how we should really get our stories straight.”
Clark regards you thoughtfully, a contemplative expression carved into the creases on his forehead. Then he presses into you more, cock pushing back in. You can hear the squish of his cum inside you, an indecent little sound in the quiet of the morning.
“Okay, do you wanna talk now?”
“Clark,” you deadpan.
“What?”
Your cheeks are hot again. “Obviously not like this.”
“Alright, later then.”
Clark doesn’t look the least bit remorseful, lips stretched into a wide grin. He’s much too gleeful for a man who’s foiled your plans to be responsible again — with his dick.
“Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Instead of spending the day puttering around the farm and watching Clark do manual labor in nothing but overalls (which isn’t necessarily the worst way to kill time), the Kents propose going to the fair that’s in town.
Clark insists that his parents could use his help while he’s around.
They insist that he should spend time with his fiancée.
The five of you pile into Clark’s truck; to avoid suspicion, you ride up front with him, throwing his parents a tight smile as you wave at them as the car treks down the dirt path. The three of them are bickering about something related to agriculture in the backseat while you — you find yourself once again distracted by Clark who looks far too good driving.
Sometimes, you think you need to get your brain rewired for being too easily stimulated by the sight of him. It’s like your brain is wired to tune into him, to every little detail from the way his eyes crinkle, how his lips pucker when he whistles, or that one vein along his arm that jumps every time he turns the wheel.
Your plan backfires when you stare at him a little too long, trying to think of how you could get the two of you to talk to get your stories aligned, and Clark ends up noticing how your eyes never stray too far from him. The corners of his lips tip up, pleased, then his free hand slides over your thigh once more.
It doesn’t do anything. It just stays there. A grounding presence.
The back of your neck warms and you blame it on the mid-morning sun.
The fair is nothing too crazy, you didn’t expect anything grand from a small town near Smallville. It’s more like a community event, with faces familiar to the Kents dotting the crowd. A small market lines the entry area, selling all sorts of trinkets and knick-knacks. Clark bumps your shoulder with his arm as you walk down the path.
“Don’t you like those things? You wanna take a look?”
You cock an eyebrow. “I do like them, how do you know that?”
“I see them all over your apartment,” he shrugs, “especially the flowery-looking ones.” You’ve started collecting miniature toys and figurines with flowers on them. Since you can’t seem to keep plants alive, your little addiction to buying the most useless pieces of paperweight is fulfilled by the replacement of real live decor.
“Oh. Yes, well, I have too many now so I don’t think I should even look at them. Otherwise, I’ll be tempted to buy.”
Beyond that, the fair opens up to game booths — your classic ring toss, darts, and shooting a water ducky — and attractions like pony riding, a petting zoo, and so on and so forth. It’s cute. It’s quaint. Nothing like what you see in the big cities. In fact, big cities have no carnivals like these. So maybe you’re a teensy bit excited.
“Wanna play?” Clark smiles at the obvious enthusiasm on your face.
Before you can answer, a shrill voice calls out to Clark. Well, it’s not really shrill, it actually sounds rather sweet — like the tinkling of bells — but you see the source of that sound and you feel an irritating itch in your chest.
“Willow! I haven’t seen you in a while.”
Oh, so he knows her. That ugly part inside of you wonders if he also has the same arrangement with her. But no, she seems nice. Like the girl next door. The kind of girl you marry — and not with a fake engagement.
They chat for a little bit and you’re on the sidelines watching them. Kara nudges you by your side. “We’re going to try the dunk tank. Jimmy has agreed to be dunked as long as we can aim. Wanna come?”
Your gaze flicks over to Clark for a second but find that he’s still eagerly chatting with this girl, so you put on your biggest smile and turn back to your best friend.
“Let’s do it.”
The four of you busy yourselves with the various games. Lois manages to dunk Jimmy four times. Jimmy then proceeds to win a free t-shirt to change into from the ring toss. Kara absolutely destroys Lois at basketball and you absolutely annihilate all of them at darts (pub nights are coming in handy after all).
You’re having a great time — a wonderful time — until you realize that Clark still hasn’t caught up. Every time you look over in search of him, he’s there helping a new person. First, it’s the old lady with her bags of groceries. Then it’s the little boy with his cat in the tree. Next, it’s the farmer who needs to unload his van of dozens of boxes.
And then it’s that girl — Willow, was it? — who is apparently a florist and is setting up the most beautiful little booth in the market.
It’s thoughtful, it’s kind. That’s who Clark is. But then you see him laughing and smiling and just being Clark and all you can feel is pissed. He’s here for you — all of you — so why is he busying himself with others? It’s incredibly selfish and guilt gnaws at your chest.
So you bite down that terrible feeling and instead focus on the others. You’re fine with this. It’s not as if you have anything with Clark, really. You’re friends who happen to fuck every summer. That’s all.
Maybe Clark is simply looking for something more long-term.
Your eyes wander to Lois. You’ve always thought that they would be a thing. Two incredibly smart people who work together, who have great chemistry. You know that Clark respects and adores her deeply, as evidenced by how much he talks about her. It seemed to be a matter of time.
Your anger doesn’t ease. Instead, you channel that rage into this shooting game. Clark has only just shown up, standing next to Kara with his gaze on you, a dopey smile in place.
You hit the target dead center again and again and again.
“That’s the first time today! You’ve got quite the skills, miss.” The guy at the booth says, both impressed and terrified. “You can pick any prize you want from the top.”
Clark whistles with his fingers and grins. “Good job, that was incredible.”
You hate yourself for immediately blooming with excitement at the compliment, especially when he’s left this group to tend to other people. How pathetic can you be?
The next words out of your mouth are not your best moment.
“Well, seeing as my fiancé is too busy to get me anything.”
You can see the moment your jab lands and the smile wipes off his face, replaced by a look of sheer surprise. You turn on your heel and make your way to the next game, teddy bear tucked safely in your arms.
It’s not that you’re immature. You’re not. You’re an adult. But it doesn’t mean that you can’t be a teensy bit petty.
Every time Clark tries to come close to you, you’re linking arms with Kara and traipsing off. When he calls your name, you pretend not to hear by cheering for Lois as she slams a hammer down on a strength-based game.
It’s an exhausting endeavor and you’re this close to giving up. Plus, the heat isn’t exactly letting up and you’re starting to feel a little woozy.
So when Clark approaches you again, you almost cave and lean on his broad frame for support.
“Hungry?” He asks carefully as his long legs finally catch up to you alone.
Your stubbornness nearly denies him once more but your stomach wins out when it growls. Loud.
Clark doesn’t tease you; he simply takes your hand and whisks you away to the little makeshift food court. He sits you down and begins going from stall to stall, collecting one dish after another until you’ve got a spread in front of you.
It’s all your favorite things — or similar ones that he thinks you’ll enjoy; he would be right.
You’re too busy stuffing your face to notice Clark wringing his fingers in front of you, fidgeting as he tries to get your attention.
“What?” You finally ask when you peer up after his nth time repositioning himself, shrinking so he would be in your line of sight.
“Can you tell me why you’re sulking?”
“I’m not sulking.”
He gives you a look.
“I’m not! I don’t care who you spend your time with.”
“Who?” Clark perks up, irises bright with curiosity.
Shit. You and your big mouth. Now you’ve gone ahead and given away too much, so you clamp your lips shut and shake your head. You shut down his every attempt to pry by focusing on eating instead.
He only seems to relent when he thinks he’s pushed hard enough, but, knowing Clark, he isn’t going to let the matter slide so easily.
You continue your day unscathed for the most part. You cling close to Kara who doesn’t seem to mind that you’re sticking to her instead of her brother. Of course, she shoots you questioning looks but the shake of your head prevents her from pushing.
You’re in the middle of cheering for Lois and Kara when a cloud of pink appears before you. You blink at it before you trace back the source of the dessert. Unsurprisingly, Clark stands at the other end of the cotton candy.
“You like this, don’t you?”
You mentioned once that you’ve always liked cotton candies. It’s all sugar, but that childish part in you relishes the way the fluffy treat melts on your tongue.
“I do, thank you,” you confirm, ripping apart a piece before popping it in your mouth. The strands dissolve into syrup on your tongue.
Clark looks at you expectantly, a tinge of anxiety in the slight fold of his brows. “Good?”
“Good,” you smile at him.
Perhaps you’ve been too hard on him today. He’s being a good neighbor and you’re giving him shit for talking to someone else.
The two of you aren’t exclusive. That’s the whole point of this arrangement. If he happened to find someone that he wants to actually date seriously, then you’d let him go.
Somehow, the thought makes your stomach churn.
“I got you something else.”
You look up at him and he digs around in his shirt pocket and pulls out a thin silver band. A crystal sits in the middle of it, sparkling no less brightly than a diamond. It’s simple, it’s sweet. It’s characteristically you.
“It’s nothing extravagant but you wear silver jewelry, right? I think this should fit.” Then Clark is taking your left hand and sliding the promise over your ring finger. The band sits perfectly snug. The crystal catches light and twinkles like it’s winking at you.
For all your pouting, Clark seems to know the perfect remedy.
“Just, you know, until the trip is over,” he adds nervously. “If that’s okay with you.”
You bring your hand up, watching as the ring glimmers underneath the afternoon sun. Your lips tip up in a small smile.
“Yeah, that’s okay with me.”
“And, if it’s any reassurance,” Clark adds, quieter, low enough that the others can’t hear — eyes trained solely on you, sharp and honest, “I only have eyes for you.”
Your heart beats against your ribs. Heat frames your face at the same time he smiles softly at you.
You don’t respond, but that’s answer enough.
The chill beneath your fingertips rouses you from sleep. When your eyes flutter open, Clark’s big, warm body is nowhere to be found. You remember falling asleep cuddled up to a living, breathing heater and now you’re shivering as you tug on an extra sweater. Your footsteps are quiet as you pad out into the hallway in search of him, navigating through the darkness until your eyes land on him, bathed in the moonlight on the bench outside.
Clark turns before the door even swings open. He must’ve heard you.
“You’re up early — or late,” he notes.
“So are you, what’re you doing awake?”
“Couldn’t really sleep, you?”
“Must’ve been all the cotton candy,” you say as you slide into the seat next to him.
The midnight air in Smallville is brisk, you’re beginning to regret not throwing on an extra layer. Clark senses your shivers and immediately scooches closer towards you, draping his flannel over your shoulders and tucking you in close. The draw of his warmth is too tempting to resist and you end up nuzzling into his shoulder.
“Could’ve stayed inside,” you flag quietly.
“The fresh air helps me think. Plus, it’s nice to take advantage of this away from Metropolis. Breathing in fumes doesn’t seem conducive to my health.”
“Good thing your only weakness is extinct,” you tease, bumping shoulders gently.
Clark smiles at you, soft and knowing. “It’s not my only weakness.”
You raise an eyebrow but he doesn’t elaborate, so you don’t press. Instead, you ask him what’s plaguing his mind.
“My parents,” he begins, “I worry about them. They’re getting older, things with the farm aren’t easy and we’re not in a position to hire any extra hands.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m thinking if I should move back.”
Your heart plummets, all amusement evaporating. You don’t know why you’re so disappointed by the thought. Although you don’t live in Metropolis, although you don’t see Clark very often, you’re only a city away, and even then, he still feels light-years away. “Move back?”
“Here to Smallville. I’m not sure yet.”
Your throat is tight when you attempt a joke, “What? And leave your fiancée behind?”
Clark’s lips curl. “Never. I’ll take you with me.”
Oh. Your chest warms. “What makes you think I’d go with you?”
“I’d just have to convince you,” he whispers, tilting his head to press his forehead against yours. His next words are soft, but they have your heart pressing against your ribcage. “And I can be very persuasive.”
A giggle falls from your lips. Clark shrinks himself, bending himself at a slightly odd angle to accommodate your height as you lean your head on his shoulder. The quiet moon is company you don’t want to humor tonight and Clark seems to agree when he rises to his feet and offers his hand.
The two of you drift back into his bedroom. Light still spills across his hardwood floors that whine below his heavy footfalls. But Clark shields you from the stark brightness, engulfing you in a comfortable night against his chest.
When you tip your face up, he’s already looking down at you. For a moment, he only searches your eyes. Looking for something you’re not sure you can provide.
However, he seems to find whatever it is he wanted when he leans down and slides his mouth over yours.
The kiss is soft. Slow. None of the usual heat and messiness that leads to hours of tangled legs and sweaty limbs. This one is patient, it’s kind. Clark tastes like tea and sugar, the kind of concoction that lulls you slowly back to sleep.
Before your consciousness slips away again, Clark murmurs a promise of sweet dreams.
You think you may already have that.
This farmlife experience is much more taxing than you expect. Hours of Harvest Moon on your old game consoles do nothing to prepare you for the ache between your fingers and the soreness of your shoulders. However, you suck it up and keep going because there’s no greater sight than Clark who delights in showing you the ropes.
You’ve fought off chickens all morning to feed them and take their eggs for breakfast. You’ve milked cows, delicate fingers wrapped around the hefty udders until you fill a whole pail. You’re grooming the horses and trying not to get your hair chewed out.
Again, it’s all worth it when you see Clark beam at you like the morning sun.
His eyes also keep wandering to your finger where he has already pointed out — “You’re wearing the ring.”
You blame the fever on your neck on the sun that’s barely risen. “I thought it would be best to wear it so your parents don’t get suspicious.”
The two of you do end up talking, agreeing on points in time that align for your supposed romantic development. It isn’t a hard task, not when you actually do remember those moments when you felt your strongest attraction towards Clark. The first time you slept together was redesigned as your first date. The arrangement of your… arrangement was reconfigured into a conversation about official labels.
Clark is close to your side, arms brushing as the two of you make your way back to the house. The basket of eggs hangs from Clark’s hand as his other one shifts to the small of your back — it hovers, present, but doesn’t touch.
He’s telling you a story from his days of youth and you’re throwing your head back in laughter. The emotions come easy here — honest in the early hours of dawn when it’s only you and him.
When you arrive at the house, you two spot Lois already nursing a steaming coffee mug in her hands. Her eyes dart between the two of you carefully, curious — almost calculating. Her lips quirk upwards at the sight and you’re almost shy by her response.
Unfortunately, Clark’s reaction has you stiffening. He clears his throat and takes a step out to the side. Away from you. Distance. You try not to let your hurt show but it feels as if there’s a giant stone sitting in the pit of your stomach that’s weighing you down, slowing your steps.
“What’s going on?” Clark asks, brows puckered.
It’s your turn to regard the two of them. Clark has always been comfortable with Lois. Kara’s teased him before for having a crush on her; perhaps that feeling still lingers. Worse yet, perhaps those feelings have only strengthened.
Once again, you reckon with the fact that Clark Kent is not yours. You have no right to be jealous, to feel possessive over a man who doesn’t belong to you. You were the one who put your foot down and swore off any actual romantic relationships, and Clark was never an exception.
If Clark wanted Lois — and if, by some luck, Lois wanted Clark back, who were you to stand in the way of true love?
So you force a smile and shake your head. “Nothing. I’m going to get cleaned up. I’ll see you later.”
“Wait—”
But you’re already turning on your heel and heading back inside the house.
+ sam: tumblr hit me with the block limit for the full fic so i figured this is a good separation point while i edit the second half!! happy ending i promise <33
Warnings: praise kink, hand pinning, sex while a literal crime is happening outside, reckless vigilante behavior, inspired by a scene in Narcos, MDNI
a/n: I fear Jason would actually do this in one of his more deranged moods. The others are probably more willing to leave you high and dry, finish the job, and come back later. Jason knows Bruce raised enough children to cover his ass.
Jason Todd is probably one of the few vigilantes who would rather finish what he started with you than rush off to help with the burning building caused by a car explosion a few streets away.
Don't start thinking that Jason doesn't care about Gotham. He loves Gotham, actually. Enough that the city has shaved years off his life and been the reason for his demise more than once. But does he care enough to pull out of the sweet, velvety walls of your pussy?
No, actually.
Bruce raised enough Bat-children for that particular reason.
You tried to get up when the first blast rattled the windows, but Jason was far faster. One broad hand caught both of your wrists and pinned them above your head while the other dragged your ankle to its rightful place over his shoulder, rough fingers curling around your calf as he settled his weight over you again.
"Jason, you have to go. What even was that?"
"Car bomb," he practically purred, pushing the leaky tip of his cock back into your pussy like the explosion had been nothing more than a minor interruption.
You tried to form a protest. Really, you did. But your protest amounted to little more than slapping one of his biceps when he cooed about how wet you were for him. His hips moved in slow, lazy strokes, making it increasingly difficult to remember the rest of the lecture you had prepared for him.
Another siren screamed somewhere outside, followed by the distant crackle of fire and shouting. Red and blue light flashed through the broken blinds of his safehouse, moving over Jason's naked body in restless streaks. It illuminated the sweat running between his pecs and caught in the pale scars scattered across his chest as he folded you deeper beneath him.
His green eyes never left your face, not even when another siren joined the first, while Gotham continued doing what Gotham did best.
Falling apart.
"Y-you need to go, Jay," you insisted, forcing the words between the moans slipping from your lips as he continued hitting that weak spot
"In a minute," he answered with a wink and a firm squeeze around your wrists.
God, Jason could be mean when he wanted to be. Today just happened to be one of those days.
Apparently, a minute meant whenever he was finished pulling every pretty sound he could from your lips, listening to the wet drag of your pussy around his cock whenever he found the spot that curled your toes.
"Couldn't leave you like this. So needy," he muttered against your throat, planting a constellation of kisses along your skin. The scrape of his stubble followed each one, rough enough to leave you warm before his lips soothed over the same spot. "Look at you. So wet for me."
"Jay," you breathed.
His palm pressed against the bulge his cock made low in your stomach, buried so deep inside you that you could barely breathe. You had a perfectly good argument prepared about how wrong it was for him to still be inside you while people were probably panicking in the streets, but then he pushed your leg farther back and rolled his hips again, and suddenly civic responsibility became a very difficult concept to hold on to.
"Gorgeous," he mused against your throat, kissing the hollow beneath your collarbone.
He finally released your hands, only so you could claw at his broad shoulders while he cupped your breasts. Jason muttered under his breath about how soft you were and how perfectly your breasts fit into his palms while you melted beneath him.
"I know, baby." His thumb and forefinger circled your nipple as it budded beneath his touch with a soft tug. "Gotham's falling apart." His teeth grazed your throat, leaving behind a mark that would darken by morning. "It does that every night."
The radio on the floor beside his helmet and your overnight bag had been going off nonstop by then, voices overlapping through bursts of static.
"Red Hood, respond."
Tim.
"Hood, I didn't come to Gotham to pick up after you. Where the hell are you?"
Dick.
Obviously, Jason was far too occupied to turn off the radio or do anything about the situation outside.
His grip around your breast tightened as his thrusts grew harder, matching the desperate movement of your hips. The mattress shifted beneath you while he watched your face with an unbearably smug, yet adoring look.
"Pretty thing," he groaned, eyes falling shut as his dark brows pinched together. He muttered about how close he was before catching your mouth with his. "What if I just let the city burn for you, hm?"
A burst of gunfire cracked through the radio and echoed from two streets down, sharp enough to make you flinch and tighten around his cock. Jason only paused long enough to listen, still toying with your breast as he cocked his head slightly.
"Modified M4," he confirmed against your pout. Another burst followed, as did his hips. "Cheap suppressor, too."
The radio crackled again with several increasingly annoyed demands to know where he was. Jason groaned for an entirely different reason and pressed his forehead against yours. His fingers left your breast and slipped between your bodies, finding your clit with practiced ease.
Your back arched before you could stop it.
"There you go," he praised, his mouth brushing across your cheek. "That's it, dove. Let me feel you."
His roughened thumb moved in slow circles, cruel and steady.
"You gonna come on my cock?" he asked, his voice dropping lower. "That what you need?"
The words kept spilling out between kisses, each one rougher and more desperate than the last.
Then Dick mentioned something about tracking Jason's suit and dragging him out himself.
That finally got a reaction.
Not the reaction Dick wanted, obviously.
Jason hooked an arm around your waist and hauled you upright until you were straddling him, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. His hands settled at your waist, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of your sides as he guided you down again.
"Then we'd better finish before he gets here."
"Jason, I swear to God - "
"Yeah?" His green eyes glinted beneath lowered lashes. "Tell him how good I make you feel."
You made an offended little noise, but Jason only laughed and caught your lower lip between his teeth before kissing you again.
"That's my baby," he murmured, hands tightening around your waist as his thrusts grew meaner beneath you. Chest pressed against yours. The sound of skin hitting skin and all the lewd noises of your cunt filling the room. "So soft. So perfectly made for me. Don't know how you expect me to leave when you feel this good."
Outside, sirens wailed. The radio kept spitting out his name. Red light slid through the blinds while Gotham tried to tear itself apart a few streets away.
"You are genuinely the worst vigilante in Gotham."
"But I'm your favorite," Jason laughed as he pushed himself impossibly deeper.
You could bite, scratch, curse, and remind him that people were literally depending on him, but he answered every protest with another kiss and harsh thrust.
He was not leaving until both of you came.
And even then, Jason Todd had never been particularly good at stopping after one round.
What’s a girl supposed to do when her jacked boyfriend is covered in grease because he’s fixing his bike with his bare. fucking. hands?
Tags/CW: 18+ MDNI, p in v sex, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), creampie, doggystyle, slight mating press, fingering, oral (f!receiving), cvckdrunk reader, hair pulling, switch dynamics, pvssydrunk Jason Todd, semi!public sex
“If you don’t stop working on that bike im gonna bite you”
That makes Jason look.
Fucking finally.
He lifts his head slowly, helmet thrown somewhere you can’t even begin to care for, grease smeared along his knuckles and the edge of his jaw. There’s a pause—long enough that you think maybe he didn’t hear you, long enough for the hum of the massive Batcycle he drives to fill the garage again.
Then his mouth twitches, right at the corner where his scar begins.
“Y’know,” he says, straightening just enough to roll his shoulders, “most people threaten me with guns.”
His eyes flick to you—sharp, assessing, amused in that dangerous way that makes your stomach dip. He wipes his hands on a rag, not breaking eye contact and walks towards you in slow strides.
“But sure,” he adds, stepping closer, boots heavy against the concrete. “Biting. That’s totally new.”
You’re suddenly very aware of how close he is. Of the heat coming off him. The way his triceps flex when he throws the towel to the direction of the bike, the veins on his forearms pumping with each movement. The fact that he’s still half in work mode—leather jacket open, sleeves pushed up, forearms tense, smelling like motor oil and something so unmistakably him — you’d be crazy not to try to demand his attention. Especially when you’ve done nothing but stare at him for a good amount of, what, forty five minutes now?
“I’m threatening you with a good time, actually.”
Oh that line? Yeah, that usually earns you consequences.
He tilts his head at you like a puppy. “You gonna follow through,” he murmurs, “or is that just trash talk?”
There’s a challenge in it. Not loud. Not cocky. Jason is too soft—despite his massive, enormous muscles—to let himself be cocky with you, but he always indulges you with some sass.
Jason stops a half-step away from you. Close enough that the space between your bodies feels intentional, like he measured it. Close enough that the air shifts—hot, metallic, thick with oil and ozone and the faint bite of gunpowder that never really leaves him. Your fingers trap his chin between them, forcing his jaw to your eye level and you hate it— but you bite your lower lip so hard you feel your skin tingle.
The garage hums around you. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, one of them flickering just slightly. The Batcycle ticks as it cools, metal settling, protesting. Gotham presses in from outside—sirens somewhere far off, rain threatening but not yet falling.
Jason’s gaze drops. Not all the way. Just enough to register your mouth. The pause is fraction-of-a-second small, but you feel it anyway. He stills after, jaw tightening like he caught himself mid-mistake.
“What is it?” He asks, quirking an eyebrow up instinctively.
And you can’t help it— your hand comes to slap against his ass so you can make him jump a tad closer to you. Because, really, how can you even be expected to behave yourself while watching him screw nails with his fingers instead of screwdrivers? Thinking how he could be using his fingers instead to toy with your clit; one big, plushy thumb coiling tight circles on you while he fucks you with his middle finger instead of working on that stupid bike.
How can you be prompted to ignore how absolute snug his leather jacket fits, ready to burst at the seams when his bulky shoulders threaten to make it explode? When he could be using the same muscle to hold you against his chest while he fucks you from behind just so he can kiss you?
“Jesus—” His hand comes up on instinct, gripping your wrist, not to stop you, just grounding himself. His thumb presses into your pulse as your mouth already has found his “Someone’s horny.”
For a long moment, you let your lips brush his, your teeth softly grazing between your mouths When he finally manages to take a deeper breath though, you pounce, biting his lip into your mouth. And instead of hissing, Jason draws you even closer, his hips slamming against yours through your clothes.
“Your fault.” you whisper against his mouth.
He lets out a sharp laugh that dies halfway in his chest, but he’s smiling. Wide and unguarded. The kind you only get when he’s forgotten to keep the walls up. Not that he usually has his guards up when you’re around.
His hands come alive then—one sliding up your side, fingers splaying like he needs the contact, the other tangling briefly in your hair before he remembers himself and settles, sweetly for your shoulder instead. The kiss turns sloppy fast, uncoordinated, mouths chasing each other, teeth knocking, breath shared and uneven.
Your intent is to kiss him silly, until both of your chins are absolutely coated in drool, and you absolutely manage to deliver.
The bike behind him gives an irritated whine as one of the screwdrivers he rested on the seat falls to the ground, like it’s been personally offended.
Jason breaks the kiss just long enough to glance back at it, then at you—eyes dark, pupils blown, lips red and swollen.
“…Guess the bike can wait,” he says.
Jason’s gaze flicks to your mouth again—this time he doesn’t stop himself at all. Doesn’t hide it. His breath shifts, deeper now, slower, like he’s trying to steady something that’s already tipped. He wants you so bad when you’re set on freaking him out, it would be insane to try and fight it.
“Fuck—” he starts, then exhales through his nose, frustrated. “If you’re gonna—”
He doesn’t finish that either.
You close the distance for him.
It’s barely anything—just enough that your breath brushes his cheek, your chest almost touching his. You feel him go still again, like a loaded weapon set on a table. Waiting.
“Stop talking Jay,” you whisper. “I need you naked right now or I'm gonna explode!”
For a heartbeat, he just looks at you. Really looks. Like he’s weighing the risk. Like he knows exactly how badly this could end— someone walking in on you, you are in belfry after all— and he’s choosing it anyway.
Then his hand slides from your wrist to your jaw.
He cups your face with a care that doesn’t match his size at all, thumb resting just under your cheekbone. He hesitates there—one last pause, one last chance to pull away.
He doesn’t take it. Of course.
The kiss he gives you is slow. Hungry, but not rushed to its core. Jason leans in like he’s testing the ground beneath his feet, lips brushing yours first, barely there, a question more than an answer. When you don’t pull back, when you lean in too, shoulders dropping like you're melting in his touch, he exhales against your mouth and deepens it.
Warm. Firm. Careful in a way that feels almost dangerous.
His thumb shifts, tilting your chin up, keeping the angle just right.
The kiss breaks for a fraction of a second, just long enough for him to catch his breath, his forehead resting against yours. "Naked, huh?" he rumbles, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that you feel in your own chest. You take it upon yourself to kiss the rough pad of his thumb, the coarse skin on the inside of his palm and then, even more carefully, the inside of his wrist "You have any idea how much gear I'm wearing? It’s a process."
He doesn't wait for an answer. His hands move from your jaw to your waist, his large palms spanning nearly the whole width of you. In one fluid, effortless motion, he hoists you up, seating you on the edge of the metal workbench.
The cold bite of the steel against your thighs is a sharp contrast to his body heat. Tools rattle behind you—wrenches and screwdrivers clattering as you’re shoved back into his workspace. Jason crowds into the space between your knees, his heavy boots locking you in.
"You're gonna get grease on your clothes," he warns, teasingly, though he’s already reaching for the hem of your shirt, his eyes dark with a hunger that says he couldn't care less if the whole place burned down around you.
"That’s even hotter," you breathe, tugging at his leather jacket, pulling it off his shoulders.
He lets out a rough, truncated sound—halfway between a laugh and a growl—and dives back in, his mouth finding the sensitive dip of your neck while his grease stained fingers fumble with the buttons of your pants. When his palms finally make contact with your bare skin, the heat is staggering.
He breaks the kiss just enough to strip off his leather jacket completely, throwing it blindly over the Batcycle. He looks like a storm—hair mussed, eyes dark and blown out until the blue is just a thin, electrified ring around his pupils.
You're just a puddle for him really.
"You being in civilians tonight was supposed to be for easy access?" he laughs, his voice vibrating deep in his chest, you hum in response, casting kisses everywhere around his mouth. "Unfair."
“Unfair?” You tilt your head back as his mouth migrates to your jawline, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. “I think it’s a tactical advantage, Jay. You’re the one who’s over-prepared.”
Jason huffs a breath against your skin, a dry, jagged sound as he kisses your earlobe. “Tactical advantage,” he repeats, the words vibrating against your throat. “Yeah. I’ll show you a tactical advantage.”
He reaches back without looking, his large hand sweeping a row of heavy sockets and a torque wrench off the bench. They hit the concrete floor with a series of loud, metallic clangs that echo through the rafters, but Jason doesn't even blink. He uses the cleared space to lean over you, his weight pressing you back into the cold steel until you’re lying flat, your legs naturally hooking around his waist to keep from sliding.
The contrast is dizzying—the freezing metal against your spine and the scorching, solid bulk of him pinning you down.
“You’re gonna be covered in grease,” he mutters again, but this time it’s not a warning—it’s a promise. His hands, rough and calloused, slide under the hem of your sports bra. The moment his palms hit your ribs, you gasp. His skin is searing, and the faint scent of motor oil on him feels strangely right in the middle of this chaos.
He doesn't waste time. With a strength that feels effortless, he tugs the fabric up and over your head, tossing it somewhere toward the darkness of the rafters. His eyes rake over you, dark and possessive, before he drops his head to the valley of your chest, his stubble grazing your skin.
“Jason—” you breathe, your fingers tangling in the buzzed hair at the nape of his neck.
“I got you,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into that gravelly register that always makes your toes curl. “Stay right here.”
He pulls back just enough to deal with his own gear. The heavy tactical belt hits the floor with a dull thud, followed by the metallic clack of his holsters. He moves with a frantic sort of efficiency, his movements sharp and hungry. When he finally shoves his shirt off, the flickering fluorescent light overhead catches the map of his body—the jagged lines of scars, the heavy swell of his chest, and the sheer, intimidating breadth of him.
He looks like a wrecking ball in human form, and he’s looking at you with so much tenderness, like he’s more than eager for you to let him do anything to you.
He crowds back into your space, his bare chest slick with a light sheen of sweat as it meets yours. The friction is obliterating—your nipples drag along his chest and for all that’s worth it, you suppress the moan that threatens to spill over. He hooks his hands under your thighs, dragging you to the very edge of the workbench until your hips meet his.
“Now,” he pants, his forehead dropping against yours, his nose brushing yours in the dark. “About that biting threat.”
Jason captures your lower lip between his teeth, pulling just hard enough to make you whine, before his mouth devours yours again. This time, there’s no hesitation. It’s all teeth and tongues fighting and the heavy weight of him trapping you on your spot.
“Yeah?”
“Let’s see.”
One of his hands stays anchored on your hip, his thumb digging into the dip of your waist to hold you still, while the other slides down, shimmying underneath the band of your cotton panties. His fingers, calloused, scarred, tap their way over your mound, teasing just slightly when he feels the hood of your clit on his pads. His whole hand cups you under your underwear, middle finger circling a tight circle at the sopping entrance of your pussy.
When his thumb finds your clit, the contact is electric—a blunt, heavy pressure that makes your back arch off the cold metal.
“Wet already?”
“Forty-five minutes of staring at you screw nails with your hand baby,” you rumbles, his voice dropping into a low, satisfied vibration against your throat. “I almost bust a nut at the sight.”
And fuck, Jason loves what he hears. He loves when you talk so dirty to him.
His thumb hooks under the edge of your panties, dragging the fabric down just enough to get it out of his way, his palm never losing contact with your skin. He’s being so very delicate; Jason always does delicate even when he’s this far gone. He’s being thorough, his fingers slicking with your heat as he maps out exactly how much you want him, teasing the tip of his finger at your entrance ever so occasionally, until your pussy pulses around nothing but thin air.
Your breath hitches, a sharp, broken sound that echoes off the metal cabinets.
Jason is pinning you down, though while his fingers do their work, his heavy thighs forcing yours wider until you’re completely open to him.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs. It’s not a question. He can feel the fine tremors running through your thighs, the way your muscles jump under his touch.
He leans down, his mouth finding the sensitive curve where your neck meets your shoulder, and he bites—not hard enough to break skin, but enough to leave a mark. He mirrors the threat you gave him earlier, his teeth grazing over your pulse point, trailing down a biting path on his way to one of your nipples, until you’re whimpering his name.
“If you hadn’t responded to my biting threat I would have dropped to my knees and I'd be begging you to put your cock in my mouth.”
“You wanted my attention this badly?” He pulls back just an inch, his eyes dark, hooding with a dangerous kind of intent. “You’ve got it. All of it.”
He slides two fingers inside you with such blunt pressure that makes your hips jerk upward, seeking more. He’s steady, his rhythm slow and torturous, his thumb never leaving your clit from the moment he finds it, grinding in tight, heavy circles that make your vision go blurry at the edges.
All the while he keeps kissing between your hardened nipples like a man starved.
The garage feels like it’s shrinking; the image of you, on your knees, begging for his cock is enough of a mind game to make him so painfully hard, that he feels his cock throbbing inside his pants. Instead of acting on it though, he’s watching you, his jaw tight, his own breathing coming in jagged, heavy pulls as he watches your face come apart under his hand.
“Jason, please,” you gasp, your fingers digging into the hard muscle of his forearms, trying to pull him closer, trying to bridge the last bit of distance.
He lets out a sharp, ragged breath, his forehead dropping against yours again. “Not yet,” he grunts, his fingers curling deeper, hitting a spot that makes your entire body go taut. “I want to see you come on this table before I even think about getting these pants off.”
He increases the pace, his hand moving with almost mechanical precision. And it’s pointless to try to hold it in, he knows every spot that makes you gasp and moan, anyway. Knows when to slow down the pace, or pick it up again. And fuck, he knows that had it been any other day, you would already be pushing his head between your thighs, urging him to suck your clit between his lips.
But the sound your pussy makes for just his fingers tonight?—the wet, rhythmic friction as he fucks them into you—is drowned out only by the blood rushing in his ears and the needy sounds coming from the back of your throat.
Your breath is hitching in short, desperate stabs, your hips stuttering against his hand as the tension coils into a tight, screaming knot in your lower belly, your pussy pulses around his fingers like a vice and then—
Then, abruptly, he stops.
The sudden absence of his touch is like a physical blow beneath the belt. You let out a broken, frustrated sound, your eyes snapping open to find him hovering over you. He’s shaking like you did moments before—not just his hands, but his whole frame. The cool composure he usually wears like armor has completely shattered. His teeth are bared, his jaw worked so tight you can see the muscle jumping in his cheek.
"Jason—" you gasp, reaching for him, your fingers clawing at the hard muscle of his shoulders. "Don't stop. Please."
"I can't," he rasps, his voice a raw, jagged mess, as his eyes betray his exact words, lowering to where his fingers are toying with your slit. "Fuuuck—I can't just watch you. I’m gonna lose my goddamn mind baby.”
He pushes back from the bench just far enough to deal with the rest of his gear, his movements frantic, almost violent in their urgency. His heavy tactical pants and boxers are shoved down and discarded, hitting the concrete with a heavy thud of fabric and metal buckles.
His cock, free of any restraints and oozing in pre-cum, slaps heavy on his stomach.
When he moves back into your space, he doesn’t wait. He can't. He grabs your thighs, his grip bruisingly firm as he hitches your legs even higher over his shoulders, opening you up completely to the dim light of the garage.
He’s huge, intimidating in size, even, and pulsing with a heat that feels like it could melt the steel beneath you. He settles between your knees, the head of his cock catching against your entrance, slicking itself in and along the mess he already made with his fingers.
"Babe, look at me," he pleads, his voice dropping into a guttural growl. “How do you want it?”
You force your eyes to meet his. “Jason, if you don’t break my back with the meanest backshots right now, I swear to fucking god—”
He stops. The calculation in his eyes dies right then and there, replaced by something dark, jagged, and entirely unhinged.
"Screw this," he rasps, the words catching in his throat.
He doesn't just pull his hand away; he drags you off the edge of the workbench. Your feet hit the concrete for only a split second before he’s spinning you around. He shoves you back down, chest-first this time, your palms skidding across the cold steel of the table. The metal bites into your skin, but you’re barely aware of it because Jason is right there like a wall of scorching heat pressing right into your spine.
He kisses your shoulder, the nape of your neck and trails a series of sloppy pecks down your back, his tongue darting out on every single spot, until he reaches your ass. His broad hands spread you open and you arch onto him, moaning in the brattiest tone you can muster, just to urge him.
It only earns you a hard slap on the ass.
"Stay. Right. There," he whispers, his voice a warning and a plea all at once as he darts out his tongue to lick a clean stripe across your pussy, eager to catch the bead of slick that had been threatening to drip down your thighs.
You gulp in utter heat when he moans at the taste, but before you can arch your back further against his face, you feel him get up from behind you.
Jason’s hands return to you with vengeance. He hooks his fingers deep into the soft flesh of your hips, his grip so bruisingly firm it anchors you to the spot and you eel the throbbing tip of his cock pressing against your pulsing pussy. He’s trembling, you’re trembling and you just can’t take it anymore. You just want to cum on his cock for fuck’s sake.
"You want 'mean'?" he rasps, his voice a low rumble right against your ear as his thumbs tug your soaking folds open. "Fine by me.."
He lunges forward, burying himself inside you in one deep, staggering surge.
All air leaves your lungs in a broken, high-pitched cry. He bottoms out instantly, the sheer force of the impact sending a shockwave through your body that makes your elbows buckle against the steel. You barely have time to register the fullness before he’s pulling back—only to drive back in even harder.
He starts with brutal, almost mechanical rhythm. Clack. Clack. Clack. The sound of his heavy boots scuffing the concrete and the rhythmic thud of his hips hitting yours echoes off the rafters. The workbench, heavy-duty as it is, begins to protest. It groans, sliding an inch, then two, across the floor as Jason pours every ounce of him into every hit.
"Jason—!" you sob, your fingers scrambling for purchase on the surface underneath you, knocking over a tray of copper washers that scatter like metallic rain.
"Fuck— you’re so fucking tight, so wet,” he moans, his voice thick with unhinged hunger. “Perfect fucking pussy baby.”
He reaches forward, one hand leaving your hip to coil into the hair at the base of your skull, tugging your head back. He wants to see the way your eyes roll back, the way your mouth hangs open in a silent scream. "I was just... trying to work… And you’ve only been thinking about my dick."
“Yeah, yeah i have. And i still want it in my mouth Jay.”
The workbench screeches against the concrete, harsh and metallic as Jason’s weight and momentum force it back another few inches. He doesn't care about the floor, the tools, or the damage to the shop. He’s focused entirely on the way you’re taking him, on how your pussy squelches and floods around him, on the way your body is being jolted forward with every rhythmic, punishing hit of his hips, every yelp you let out that comes from the back of your throat.
"You want it in your mouth?" he rasps, his voice jagged, unadulterated. He leans down, his chest crushing against your back, his sweat-slicked skin sticking to yours. "Greedy. You’re so fucking greedy."
He doesn't stop. If anything, the pace turns more brutal. He’s delivering on every bit of your 'break my back' request, his hips slamming into yours with a sound like a physical collision. Plop, plop, plop. Every backshot is calculated to bottom out, one gradually harder, faster than the other..
He’s hitting you so bone-deep that your vision is going hazy at the edges, your forehead bumping against the cold steel of the bench with every fuck of his cock into you from behind.
“Please, Jay—please—”
“Please what sweetheart?” he whines, his voice dropping into a guttural, dark register.
He adjusts his grip, both hands now bracketing your waist, his thumbs digging into the soft skin of your belly to anchor you as he pulls back nearly all the way—before slamming home again. “You want me to stop? Or you want me to finish what you started?”
He doesn’t give you time to answer. He’s a storm of muscle and heat behind you, his breathing coming in jagged, desperate hitches. Every time he bottoms out, you feel the vibration of it even in your teeth. Your pussy slick, a swollen mess working around him, begging for the release that’s coiling tighter and tighter in your gut.
“I’m gonna cum.”
“Yeah baby, come on my cock,” Jason kisses the back of your neck “just like you wanted.”
Jason lets out a sound that’s close to a groan, his fingers bruising your hips as he delivers three final, punishing thrusts—each one deeper, meaner, until he’s buried to the hilt. He stalls there, his entire frame going rigid, a choked-off shout tearing from his throat as he finally spills into you, his weight collapsing onto your back.
The garage is silent for a heartbeat, save for the hum of the lights and your shared, ragged gasps. Then, Jason pulls out with a wet, lingering sound of ‘plop’ that makes you whimper, the sudden loss of him feeling just a little overbearing right now.
Before you can even try to catch your breath, his hands are under your armpits, hauling you up and spinning you around. He doesn’t let your feet touch the ground; he just hitches your thighs over his shoulders and settles himself between your knees, his length still hard, still weeping, and looking absolutely lethal under the flickering fluorescent light.
He looks wrecked. His hair is a mess, his eyes are blown out to black, and he’s looking at your mouth with a terrifying sort of focus.
“You said you wanted it,” he rasps, his hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip to pull it down. “Show me.”
He doesn't wait. He crowds into you, his leaking tip pressing against your lips while you’re literally folded in half. He watches you, his jaw tight, waiting for you to wrap your tongue around his pulsing cock.
He reaches out, his thumb catching a stray tear on your cheek before sliding down to trace your lower lip—the one he’d bitten earlier. It’s swollen, pulsing, and parted as you pant for air.
"You said you wanted it," he rumbles, his gaze dropping to your mouth. He isn't asking, like he usually does; he’s giving you exactly what you literally begged for.
Jason looks down at you, his hand coming up to cup the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair once more—not to pull, but to guide.
"Well?" he murmurs, a new challenge sparking in those blue eyes. "I'm not gonna be the only one who's distracted. I want you thinking about the taste of us all fucking day."
~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2026. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work.
A/N: if you liked this just know this is GK!Jason, give than man some love UGH I love him.
Likes and reblogs are so appreciated but comments are the fuel my heart needs to keep pumping fics like this
summary: after several long days spent on the kent farm, you and clark are a little…pent up.
tags & cw: 18+ MINORS PISS OFF, fem afab reader, established relationship (engaged), slight breeding kink, p in v sex (protected for once!!), exhibitionism (kind of?), f masturbation, the squeaky ass bed is the villain here
wc: 6.6k
a/n: this is kinda ass ngl. anyway unrelated but how are my fellow kingdon truthers feeling after today…what a fucking rollercoaster. anyways hope yall enjoy!!
want some more clark content? Check out my clark masterlist!
You’d been trying to suppress it all week. Truly, you had. It wasn’t your fault that Clark looked stupidly attractive in flannel, with sweat beading at his hairline and slipping beneath the collar of his t-shirt. It wasn’t your fault that his Ma and Pa had raised him right, that he helped with dinner and folded everyone’s laundry when it was finished drying on the clothesline. You couldn’t be held responsible for what happened between your thighs whenever you watched him complete miscellaneous tasks around the house, fixing whatever appliance or squeaky hinge that had been nagging Ma for the past several weeks like the perfect fucking son he was.
So, really, you weren’t at fault for the way your kisses began lingering a bit longer than what was appropriate for his childhood home. The way your hand regularly found his thigh every night beneath the dinner table, daring to get progressively higher with each passing day.
It was inevitable. A means to an end. A festering desideratum that was growing increasingly difficult to ignore.
It was affecting Clark too, you could feel it. His hugs were longer. He hovered around you more than usual. Clark’s touches were always meaningful, so when he began squeezing your hips or shoulders as he slipped by you in the kitchen or living room, you knew there was intent behind it.
It didn’t help that this was your first time visiting the Kents as his fiance. The knowledge that you were about to be married certainly didn’t help matters. Clark, along with his sweet, endearing, oh-so-oblivious parents had already been teasingly referring to you as “Mrs. Kent”, and it was more than enough to make you insane.
For his parents’ sake, you sincerely hoped your joint desperation wasn’t as glaringly obvious to them as it was to you. Though, if the sly smiles on Ma’s face whenever she noticed the pathetically longing stares you two exchanged was any indication, you weren’t being as subtle as you thought.
Growing up, Ma had very strict rules about Clark’s girlfriends, as he’d informed you previously. She was the sweetest woman you’d ever met, if not a little old-fashioned by way of social standards (Clark’s gentlemanly charm had to come from somewhere). Which of course meant that every partner of Clark’s who spent the night at the Kent household was required to sleep in a separate bedroom.
“As long as you’re stayin’ under my roof,” she had teased, waving a wooden spoon in mock threat. “Those are the rules. No bed sharin’ till you’re married.”
When Clark was in high school and college, that usually meant he took the sofa while his girlfriend took his room. Back then, the spare bedroom in the Kent household had been used predominantly for extra storage, mostly for seasonal decorations and other delicate items Ma and Pa didn’t want stored in the barn.
Recently, though, the Kents had cleaned out the space. Its “restoration” had become a bit of a passion project for Pa, who was always happiest when he had something to keep his hands busy.
Clark had inquired about it once when you were both in town visiting. He’d spotted the cans of paint in the hallway, to which Ma replied with the coolness of a cucumber and the subtlety of an elephant.
“Just preparin’ for when we have kiddos in the house again.”
You choked on your sweet tea, and looked over at Clark to find that his blush had climbed all the way to his ears.
“Ma,” he bemoaned. She only winked.
One of Ma’s friends owned a ranch on the other side of town, and had introduced her to the wonders of Facebook Marketplace. Such began the spending spree that would result in brand spankin’ new (secondhand) furniture for the newly redone bedroom once Pa had finished spackling and painting.
Clark fretted endlessly over the fact that his parents were lugging around heavy furniture on their own, and would regularly speed back to Smallville to help them if he had the spare time. When you came to visit this time around, the guest bedroom was the first place Ma had dragged you both off to, eager to show off her finds.
“Ain’t it beautiful? Couldn’tve cost me more than a hundred-and-fifty some bucks. John’s good friends with Frank down at the hardware store in town, so we got a good deal on the paint, too. What was the shade, hon? Manchester tan, somethin’ or other? Anyway, I think it turned out pretty darn good.”
“It looks great, Ma,” Clark complimented with a genuine smile.
“Don’t it? Figured it would be nice not havin’ to make your poor fiance sleep on that rickety ol’ twin bed.”
There it was—the subtle confirmation that you were still expected to sleep in separate rooms. Which you would, because you respected your soon-to-be in-laws, and it wouldn’t be for much longer anyways.
“It really does look incredible,” you agreed, filling the silence. “The wonders of Marketplace.”
“Trouble now is gettin’ her to stop,” Pa called from the living room. “We got a crap ton of new patio furniture and nowhere to put it all!”
“Oh, hush,” Ma scolded, and you both laughed.
It was on day five that things became borderline unbearable. The Kents had invited some old friends over for a cookout and a bonfire. Some of the older couples’ kids had grown up alongside Clark, many of whom already had spouses and families of their own. Meaning, there were several young children in attendance, which thrilled Clark, who had been honest with you from the start about wanting a family of his own someday.
It made perfect sense—he was incredible with kids of all ages, something you’d known for a while, having seen it secondhand on TV whenever he donned the cape to visit children’s hospitals or homeless shelters.
Experiencing it firsthand, though? Your fucking ovaries were about to explode.
Pa had bought some marshmallows for the kids to make s’mores, and Clark had somehow been designated the role of official stick-gatherer. You watched the kids—ranging from kindergarten to late elementary school age—follow him around like ducklings, giggling and laughing when Clark made a show of climbing all the way up an oak tree to fetch the ‘perfect stick’ for roasting marshmallows.
One of the children, an adorable brown-haired little boy, shyly offered his first marshmallow—which was burnt to a crisp—to Clark, who accepted it with a broad smile.
“Thanks, buddy. Is this for me?”
His head bobbed. “Sorry. It burnt a little.”
“Oh, that’s alright. It’s still gooey underneath. Here, watch.”
You watched as Clark slid the charred, ashy part of the marshmallow off to reveal its perfectly melted, warm center. He sucked the mallow into his mouth, having to double down on his sticky digits as the residual bits clung to his fingers. You politely forced yourself to look away.
The rest of the night, Clark had been seated right next to you as the adults exchanged work stories and life updates while the kids ran around chasing fireflies. Inevitably, there were more than a few prying questions shot in Clark’s direction about his interviews with Superman, which always made you grin, even if only himself and his parents knew the reason behind it.
At some point, Clark’s arm draped around your shoulder as you rested your legs in his lap. With company around, he’d been forced to put on his hypnoglasses, but you certainly weren’t complaining. The firelight danced across his face and in the lens of his glasses, which you took every opportunity to push up his nose with a soft smile, leaning forward to peck his lips every so often.
Mercifully, having both older couples and young children in attendance meant the night was called off relatively early, around 8pm. You both assisted with cleanup before settling in the living room to catch up on the news. Ma and Pa turned in shortly thereafter, pressing kisses to both of your foreheads before vanishing down the hallway.
Feeling particularly greedy, you stole the chance to break the “appropriate distance” the two of you had been sitting on the sofa and cuddled up to Clark’s side with a long sigh.
“Good day?” you ask casually.
“Mhm,” he answers, fingertips brushing up and down your shoulder. You idly watch the TV for a few more minutes, toying with Clark’s fingers in your hand, already imagining the ring that would soon match yours.
The quiet sounds lulled you into a state of blissful exhaustion; his parents doing their nighttime routine, the crickets chirping through the open window, the low conversation from the television, playing a gameshow of some sort.
After a few moments of silence, you snuck a glance over the sofa, peeking to see if his parents’ door had shut yet. Clark followed your gaze curiously, about to ask what you were looking at, when you pinched his chin between your fingers and brought your mouth to his.
A pleasant hum rumbled from the back of his throat as he immediately returned the kiss. His hand cradled the side of your neck, fingers brushing against your thumping pulse as you kissed, deep and slow.
You part for air, and Clark’s mouth trails along your jaw, unhurried and without much finesse, seemingly content just to be touching you. Your eyes once again land on the closed door of his parents’ bedroom, weighing the risk before making your decision and swinging a leg over his lap.
Clark, clearly a little surprised, laughs nervously as his hands find your hips. “Honey,” he warns. “What are you—”
“Shh,” you hush him with a smirk and a finger to his lips, before kissing him again and carding your fingers through his soft curls.
He hums in bliss, grip tightening on your hips before his hands travel up and down your sides. “It feels so good to kiss you,” he whispers into your mouth.
Your breathing hitches, desire roaring to life deep in your belly, demanding attention.
“Yeah,” you agree softly.
You kiss for as long as you dare, tongues slipping into hot mouths and hands staying mostly PG; Clark wisely keeps you planted a safe distance away from his pelvis.
When you finally part, panting for air, you sit there for several long moments. The chorus of sounds has changed, slightly. Clark’s heavy breathing intermingled with your own; the subtle-soft rustle of his palms against your blouse as he caresses you. The crickets still chirp, reminding you of the hour, and you reluctantly open your eyes.
“We should probably go to bed,” you say, though you don’t mistake the sadness in your voice for anything other than it is—a thorn in your side for not being able to do anything other than kiss. “Ma said something about the Farmer’s Market tomorrow.”
Clark’s head tips back against the couch, his blue eyes drowning in a sea of black as he catalogues the look on your face. He licks his lips in consideration, and your traitorous core flips in arousal at the sight.
“Yeah,” he eventually—reluctantly—agrees.
You drag yourselves down the hallway, taking turns in the bathroom as you prepare to weather the storm of spending another dreadful night apart.
The Kent family home is small; a three bedroom, one bathroom ranch that had little room for much more than its Midwestern charm. It was an older house too, built by Pa’s grandfather in the 1920s; it had been refurbished, just enough to keep up with the times, but the bones of the house were old. Creaky floorboards and chipped paint. An extremely temperamental HVAC system. And, of utmost concern to you and Clark, thin walls.
All the bedrooms lined one hallway near the back of the house; the bathroom and his parents’ room on the left, the guest room on the right, and Clark’s bedroom tucked at the end of the hall. Everyone was snug as a bug in a rug, as the saying went.
Lucky you.
The air between you tonight feels inexplicably more charged than usual, and you have a sinking suspicion the make-out session you’d initiated had something to do with it.
“Goodnight,” you say softly, turning to face Clark from the doorway to the guest bedroom.
Clark blinks at you in consideration, before leaning down to give you one final kiss. It’s soft and almost unbearably slow. His hand cradles your jaw, thumb brushing your skin. Your lips hover, brushing one another before either of you can bring yourselves to pull away. The pad of his thumb tugs gently at your lower lip.
“Goodnight,” he whispers.
And then he’s gone, floorboards creaking beneath his feet as he retreats into his bedroom at the end of the hallway. You take a deep breath, needing a moment to collect yourself before shutting your own door and pressing your forehead against it. Get a grip.
You try to distract yourself by doing some light reading before bed, just enough to make your eyes heavy. Of course, it doesn’t work, and an hour after you’ve put your book down and turned off all the lights, you can’t sleep.
Your mind is consumed by the memory of Clark twisting open a jar of strawberry jam for Ma earlier today, and the how he’d sucked some of the jam off of his thumb. Then it flashes to the effortless way he’d carried several 400-pound hay bales over his head, across acres of farmland, all so his Pa could save some diesel on the tractor as you watched from the kitchen window. Then you remember how he’d immediately gulped down two full glasses of his Ma’s homemade lemonade, watching the condensation wet his fingers and the way his throat muscles moved as he swallowed.
It’s too much. Too much temptation packed into a 1,300 square foot ranch, in the shape of 240 pounds of farm-bred Kryptonian muscle. Five unbearable days with only fleeting touches and lingering kisses, until tonight, when you got a taste of something more. You two had gone far longer without sex—you know this logically—but being in such close proximity and watching him around his parents and interacting with children has done irreparable damage.
Your hand is slipping beneath your pajama shorts without you even making the conscious decision.
Fuck, the way he’d smelled tonight, like burning wood and smoke, his skin warm and almost glowing as a result of spending all day in the sun. Around the campfire, you couldn’t help but caress his five o’clock shadow at any chance you got, imagining the scruff of his stubble chafing your inner thighs.
Clark loved to eat pussy.
Your fingers easily find your aching clit, but the touches are all wrong. Your fingers aren’t rough enough, aren’t large enough, can’t get the right angle.
After tonight, it was impossible not to imagine him with your own children in a very near future. The thought of him cradling an infant in his massive arms; a toddler climbing all over his back, sitting on his equally massive shoulders. You weren’t even sure it would be possible to conceive with him yet, but fuck were you content to imagine it.
You’re dripping already; it was second nature. A Pavlovian response. Your fingers are a poor substitution for the real thing, but it would have to do. He’s so close and so fucking far, and it makes your blood hot.
“Clark,” you fail to bite back the weak moan, your hips shifting around on the bed as you curl your fingers. God, a part of you hopes he’s awake, knowing he could probably hear the way you’re touching yourself, moaning his name, nearly in tears from how much you need him.
It’s when you’re finally on the precipice of a very underwhelming orgasm that you hear the same creaking floorboards and freeze. Your ears hone in on the sound, trying to brush it off as being Ma or Pa getting up to use the bathroom, which wasn’t uncommon. But the gait is undeniably heavier, and far too careful to be either of his parents.
Then you hear the doorknob turn.
You twist in the sheets, hastily pulling your hand out of your pajama shorts. You blink blearily at the door, watching as it creaks open slowly to reveal none other than your 6’4” fiance.
“Clark? E-everything okay?” you call out in a whisper as he carefully shuts the door, wincing at the way it squeaks. You hear a click, and your stomach swoops with the realization that it’s the lock.
He turns to you, a looming, impressive shadow in the darkness of the guest room. He’s at the foot of the bed in two large steps, clambering onto the double-size mattress. The sudden shift of weight makes the mattress groan, a deafening sound in the stillness of night, and your eyes widen in surprise.
“Baby, what are you doing?”
“I think I should be asking you that,” is all the explanation you get before Clark’s lips are back over yours. The kiss is slow, but it’s filthy. Nothing like the ones you shared earlier on the sofa. All tongue and lips and teeth as he hovers over you. Your legs kick out of the sheets, instinctively locking around his lower back, and you barely bite back a moan as he settles some of his weight onto you.
“Gosh, you’re unbelievable,” he breathes into you. “Touchin’ yourself like that when I’m barely a wall away. Could’ve just asked me, baby.”
You shudder, and the arousal is a burn that rips through your body. “Oh god, Clark. We- we really shouldn’t- your parents—”
“I know, baby. I know, I’m sorry. But I couldn’t take it anymore. You’ve been drivin’ me insane all week, sweetheart.” He slid his hands up your chest, groping your tits over your pajama top. “I…I heard you. Jolted me right awake; thought I was dreamin’ at first. But then I heard your sweet little moan, the little wet sounds of your pussy. Your heartbeat, honey. Like a little jackrabbit.”
You tip your head back against the pillow, breathing hard. “C-Clark, god, you can’t say things like that—”
“I know how much you want it,” he breathes, hips bearing down between yours, and shit, he’s fully hard. You haven’t felt him like this in over a week, and it’s overwhelming. “I want it too.”
Dark and quiet as it is, everything feels amplified; despite the very real threat of his parents overhearing, it’s like the two of you are in a vacuum, cut off from the rest of the world. You feel Clark everywhere, and yet it’s not enough to satisfy the insatiable beast that is frothing from between the cage of your thighs, desperate for reprieve.
Of course, wanting what you realistically can’t—or shouldn’t—have has only made matters worse.
“Baby,” Clark pants as you run your hands down his back, slipping beneath his soft t-shirt. “I can- oh gosh, I can s-smell how wet you are.”
“Fucking hell,” you curse, and kiss him again. “I want you so bad, Clark. But this…this fucking bed is probably older than both of us combined, and it’s so loud, I—”
“I know,” he responds between kisses. “I know, honey.”
“I- maybe we could- you could just use your fingers? And I could do the same?” you suggest, though it’s weak, even to your own ears. You know Clark won’t object to anything you offer, but it was crystal clear what he really wanted. What you both wanted.
Clark lets out a whine, low in the back of his throat, concealing it in the crook of your neck. “Mmm. If- I mean, that’s- that’s probably the smart thing to do…”
“But not what we really want,” you finish, brushing your nose against his cheek.
“No,” he agrees, before licking into your mouth. The soft, wet sound of your mouths causes your head to spin, heavy with desire. You can feel the blood rush in your ears, down the length of your neck, flushing the surface of your skin.
“Baby,” you whisper when you part for breath, voice shaking with a mix of longing and crumbling restraint. Your legs tighten around his waist, pulling his hips flush against yours. Your fingers pull through his hair as your pelvises build a steady grind, slow enough so as not to cause the bed to squeak but enough to drive you insane as his stiff cock ruts against your clothed pussy. “I- I can’t fucking take it anymore. I need you.”
Clark shudders, mouthing beneath your jaw. “I need you too, honey.” His lips hover over yours, words an urgent, needy whisper. “Wanna give you my cock so much, sweetheart. So, so much.”
“Oh god, Clark,” your voice shatters around his name. Your pussy flutters at the mere idea of having his cock inside you. You need him so bad you could cry. “Seeing you w-with those kids today…”
Clark groans instantly, understanding the implication. “Yeah? Imagining they were ours?”
“Mmm. Yes.”
“I know, I was too,” he admits, sucking a bruise into your skin that you will definitely regret in the morning. “You’d like that, huh? Makin’ a family with me?”
“Fuck, I- you know I would, Clark.”
“Gosh, yes. I’d give it to you in a heartbeat, my love.”
“Please,” you whine, and you truly can’t remember a time where you’ve been this desperate for sex. “I’ll book the fucking appointment tomorrow. Get my—mm, fuck—get my IUD taken out.”
The sound that escapes Clark’s throat is a mixture of pity and pain. “Oh gosh. honey, I- you’re not being fair.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” you whimper.
“We- maybe we can just go slow?” he suggests. “So slow, I promise. Won’t even put it all the way in. It won’t be loud that way, if we go slow. We can be quiet, if we…if we’re careful.”
“I don’t want it slow,” you breathe, and that’s the entire problem, isn’t it? Clark lets out another low-pitched whine, and says your name like a curse.
“You’ve been driving me crazy, too,” you continue, pausing to give him a slow, deep kiss. “I just…I just wanna fuck, Clark.”
Your hand snakes between your flush bodies, slipping beneath the waistband of his sweatpants and bypassing his boxers completely. Clark jerks, burying his face in your shoulder with a sharp exhale. The heat and weight of him makes the burgeoning desire in your gut increase tenfold; he’s hot and thick and fully hard. Your goddamn mouth starts salivating like it’s competing with your sopping pussy for his attention.
“W-we…we have to be c-careful, honey,” Clark repeats as he pumps slowly into your hands. That simple movement alone makes the mattress groan with the sound of shifting fabric. “I can…fu- baby, gosh- I can listen to make sure they don’t wake up, but I’ll have to focus. And this bed—”
“Please,” you beg, heart pounding as you listen to his breathing increase the longer you stroke him. Your own restraint is falling apart at the seams; you’re about one Clark-moan away from throwing all caution to the wind. “Forget what I said earlier, I don’t care. I- please, Clark. I need you so bad.”
“Honey, I- oh—” He’s cut off when your fist focuses furiously on the weeping head of his cock.
“Do you want to come on my fist, or in my pussy?” you ask. You know you’re playing dirty, but you need him in you. Now.
“Holy- th-that’s so mean,” he whines.
You mouth at his jaw. “Clark Joseph Kent, if you don’t put your cock in me right fucking now—”
“Good gosh, I- okay, okay.” He plants desperate kisses on your lips, firmly yanking your wrist away from his cock, desperate for a break. “Just- are you-”
“I’m fine, Clark. More than ready. Please just…just fuck me,” you demand, nipping at his earlobe.
“Okay. I- okay, gosh, hold on-”
It’s a frantic tangle of limbs and swatting hands as you both try and wiggle free of as minimal clothing as necessary without jolting the bed too much. The comforter is thrown off the bed. You blindly yank Clark’s sweats and boxers down enough to fully free his cock, while he fumbles for the waistband of your sleep shorts, cursing sweetly as he struggles with the tie. It probably doesn’t help that you’ve started jerking him off again, smearing the resulting bead of pre-cum over his sensitive tip.
“Stupid freaking-”
“Oh, Jesus fucking Christ,” you mutter, growing impatient. “Just rip it off, Clark.”
“But you hate when I-”
“Rip it.”
He doesn’t need to be told a third time. The fabric snaps the second his fists close around the tiny strings, and even that small display of his strength makes your clit fucking throb.
His fingers are on you the instant your shorts and panties are gone, rubbing messily over your folds. It’s likely for his own peace of mind, despite your insistence that you were adequately prepared for him. It feels good nonetheless, so you aren’t about to complain.
“Oh, gosh,” he marvels, thick fingers circling your clit as he glances between you. “You’re soaked, honey. Even wetter than I thought.”
“I told you,” you shudder. “Now fuck me.” Your hand, still on his cock, guides him to your waiting pussy, slipping the head through your labia and making you both moan softly.
“Fuck,” Clark curses.
“Clark Joseph,” you gasp, the profanity deliciously foreign coming from his tongue. “Did you just—”
“This is a serious matter,” Clark insists as he thrusts his hips torturously slowly. The head of his cock catches on your clit and another moan slips out of you. “See? That right there.” Your eyes widen when Clark’s palm moves to cover your mouth. “Gotta focus if we wanna be quiet.”
His words only make you whimper, the sound mostly smothered against his hand.
“Quiet,” he scolds again, but then he’s pushing in. The initial stretch burns, as it normally does (you definitely could’ve benefited from some extra lubrication, but desperate times call for desperate measures). However, the flicker of pain is quickly doused with sheer relief, like your body is sighing at the solace of finally getting him inside you.
Clark’s hand abandons your mouth in favor of supporting his weight as he half-collapses onto his forearm. The first thrust of his hips tests the waters; a little overzealous on Clark’s side, succeeding in making the rickety old bed frame squeal once, loudly. You both hold stock-still, allowing you to acclimate to his size and him to listen intently for any signs of life in his parents’ room.
Clark looks down at you in silence. Nothing.
You release your bated breath and drag him into a kiss. “Move,” you hiss, sounding like a total brat, but neither of you seem to care.
Clark obliges, pumping his hips slower this time, the motion more fluid as he disperses his weight across his whole body rather than planting his knees on the mattress.
It seems to be working, the sound of your joint heavy breathing being the loudest sound in the room. That is of course until you shift positions just slightly, and the fucking Marketplace-monstrosity of a bed frame groans loudly in protest.
A huff of agitation escapes you. “Oh fuck that’s— it’s loud, Clark. Why is it so fucking loud?”
“Shit,” he curses desperately. “Maybe- here, pull the sheets up—”
“That’s not going to do anything!”
“Well, I don’t know!” Clark exclaims in a whisper-yell. “I’m trying to help! I- oh gosh, honey, I can’t pull out of you now—”
You lock your legs around him in warning. “Don’t you dare.”
“I’m not, I’m not.”
Your head flops back against the pillows in frustration. “Just…they’re still asleep, right?”
Clark pauses to listen. “For now, yeah.”
“So…” you can’t believe you’re about to suggest this. Morning-you is going to be so fucking embarrassed. “…just…just keep going, and stop if you hear them wake up.”
Clark lets out a pained groan. “That’s easier said than done when I’m balls deep inside you, honey. I can’t focus on making you come and listening for the slightest rustle of awareness across the hallway.”
You wiggle your hips, pulling another wounded sound from Clark’s chest. “Please,” you resort to begging, yet again. “Clark, I- I’m so sexually frustrated and I finally have your dick inside me and you’re just fucking- we’re not even- I can’t—”
Clark must take pity on you, because he’s soothing you with quick pecks across your face and neck. “Honey, I know, I know. I’m sorry. Oh, my sweet girl. I’m sorry.” He starts moving again, the same slow, fluid movements as before. The bed squeaks beneath you, but it’s not too loud, you think.
Clark continues, “I wish I could fuck you how you need, baby. But we gotta be quiet. Shhh, shhh. I know. Just try and take what I’m giving you. Want me to rub your little clit? Will that help?”
You nod, only slightly horrified as you feel tears well in your eyes from the sheer frustration of it all. Clark coos praises and apologies into your ear as his fingers gently circle your swollen clit, but it’s not enough.
Sure, it feels good, amazing even, but it’s not what you’d been craving. Not the itch you needed scratched.
“Jus’ a little harder?” you beg, your voice a wet, sultry whisper against his ear as you bury your fingers in his hair. “Please? Please Clark?”
He buries his groan against your chest, mumbling a slew of frustrated, mostly incoherent words that sound something like “gonna be the death of me” and “can’t handle when you beg me for it”. But then, abruptly, the pace changes yet again. The movement ceases, just for a moment. He shifts his weight above you. His hips snap—once, twice, thrice. Still slow, but firmer. Sharper. Deeper.
“Oh—”
Anticipating your moan, his free hand flies back to your mouth, effectively cutting off the incriminating sound. He hushes you gently as his eyes bore down into yours.
The bed is…well, it’s definitely making noise now. The box springs make their presence known, creaking with every forward motion. Unfortunately, you’re too cock-drunk to pay it much attention.
At the very least, it’s not like the headboard is obnoxiously slamming against the wall. Just…if someone happened to pass by the door, it would probably be fairly obvious what was happening on the other side. Which, horrifically, turns you on even more.
Of course, you know Clark would never let something like that actually happen—nor would you want it to—but the thought of it, the risk of it, makes your stomach twist around itself in arousal. The notion that he’s fucking you in his childhood home with his sleeping parents a stone’s throw away has you hornier than you thought humanly possible.
The fingers on your throbbing clit speed up, and your eyes nearly roll back into your skull.
“C’mon, baby,” he pants. “Gotta come on this cock. Know you want to. Wanting me to make you a wife and a mommy in the same calender year, my greedy girl. All with my parents right down the hall, sound asleep. Gonna look them in the eyes tomorrow morning, honey? Knowin’ I snuck into your room just hours prior? That my cum was dripping down your thighs?”
From behind his sweaty palm, a muted chorus of “yeah, yeah, yeah” punches out of you on the crest of every sharp thrust.
Clark smothers you; with his body and his words and his kisses, his tongue just beneath your ear, his forearms caging you beneath his broad frame. Your nails dig into his back for dear life, thighs tense around his hips as every ounce of your focus narrows in on the pleasure.
“Shhh, baby,” he whispers, breath hot and voice shaking. “I know it- I know it feels good, but you gotta be quiet. Can’t let you come if you can’t be quiet.”
You need to come more than you need air to breathe, so you force your shaking body to obey, swallowing your own sounds and digging your nails further into his impenetrable skin.
“Yes, baby,” he praises. “There we go. Nice and quiet. Can I have my hand back, now?”
You nod shakily, breathing fast and hard, as Clark leans in to kiss you. The fingers swirling over your clit make a ‘v’ as they slip down to stimulate your outer lips of your vulva. Your thighs twitch around his hips, signaling your rapidly-approaching release.
“F-fuck, Clark,” you whine into his open mouth. “I- I can’t, I—”
“Yes, baby. Right there. Let it happen. Come on my cock, baby. It’s yours.”
You shatter with a high-pitched whine, one that Clark suffocates against his still-clothed chest as he quickly presses your face into his breast bone. Your pussy constricts around him, spasming uncontrollably as he works to prolong your high.
“I know, baby. I know, I- oh, that- that…I c-can feel you around me, so tight…it’s g-gonna make me come, honey—”
The hand not cradling your head fists into the pillow beside you. His sharp, jagged thrusts—the ones originally intended for your pleasure—change a final time, turning frantic in a way that signals his own impending orgasm. Beneath your writhing bodies, the bed groans and shifts. Surely the headboard rams against the wall at least once, maybe twice. You don’t keep track, solely focused on your hypersensitive cunt as it throbs and clenches around Clark, egging him on.
“C-come inside me, baby,” you plead into his ear, like that’s even a question.
“Did you m-mean it?” he asks suddenly, catching you a bit off-guard. His voice shakes as his hips falter.
“Mean what?” you barely get out.
“What you said about…about starting a family?”
The tenderness of the question hits you square in the chest, and suddenly the emotion in your eyes has an entirely different meaning.
“Yes,” you breathe, kissing the side of his face. “I love you so much, Clark. I wanna make a baby with you, m-make a family together.”
He whimpers, shortly before biting down on your shoulder in a desperate attempt to keep quiet. His hips stutter and still, cock pressed as deeply inside your pussy as he can get at this angle. He comes hard, the deliciously bizarre sensation of his cum filling your pussy pulling a final, blissed moan from you. He finally stills above you, struggling to steady his breathing.
“Golly. Sweetheart,” he exhales, and you both let out disbelieving chuckles. He pulls back to look at you, still catching his breath as you feel his cock soften inside of you. “Did we really just…”
“Have sex under your parents’ roof with them sleeping just across the hall? Yes we did,” you say, trying not to let the post-orgasm regret pull you under.
Clark laughs again, kissing you on the nose before nuzzling into your neck. You love it when he tries to tuck his massive frame into your body; it’s adorable.
“Mm. Worth it.”
You can’t help but agree.
You spend a few quiet minutes catching your breath and coming down from your highs. You run your fingers through Clark’s hair, something you know he loves after sex.
“Need’ta pee,” you protest tiredly when you feel him start to go slack above you.
“Mmm. Yeah. Yeah, m’kay,” Clark says slowly, like his brain is still catching up. He rolls off of you and you search blindly for your underwear, settling instead on Clark’s boxers which are the first thing you stumble upon. You carefully slip to the bathroom, cringing a little at the feel of his cum sliding down your inner thighs. You clean yourself up and use the toilet, trying not to think too hard about his Ma and Pa, sleeping soundly in the room next door.
When you return to the guest room, Clark holds up a finger, then presses it swiftly to his lips, eyes closing in focus.
“What? What’s wrong?” you whisper, feeling more awake all of the sudden. You lock the door—just in case—and tiptoe back to the bed.
“I think Ma woke up,” he whispers back as you climb into his waiting arms. “Probably heard you in the bathroom.”
Despite yourself, you feel your cheeks heat. “Well…they get up all the time, right? It’s not uncommon to get up and pee in the middle of the night.”
“No, it’s not,” he agrees with a yawn. “Just…I should head back to my room soon. Don’t wanna fall asleep and have’ta sneak out in the morning.”
You giggle, “god, it’s like we’re in high school or something.”
Clark smiles back. “Yeah.”
You snuggle into his chest, pleased to find that he’d taken off his t-shirt, finally. You always appreciated the skin-to-skin contact when you slept. So does Clark, so you’re not surprised when his own hands reach for the hem of your pajama top and lift it over your head.
He makes a satisfied sound and presses a single kiss to your sternum before you settle back on his chest. Clark lifts the sheets back over you both, fingers gliding down your back in soft lines.
“Love you,” he whispers into your hair.
“Love you too,” you respond.
For now, you’re beyond content to lay in his arms, listening to his soft breathing and the strong thump-thump of his heart.
~
You wake to the sound of the Kent’s rooster, announcing the wee hours of the morning. As you groggily emerge from slumber, a few more things begin to cloud your senses. Chiefly among them, the smell of bacon, wafting in from the kitchen. Mm. Delicious. And the weight of Clark’s arm, comfortably slung across your—
Wait.
You shoot up in bed, waking Clark up in the process, who startles with a sleepy-eyed huff.
“Clark, oh my god,” you gasp.
“Wha- what is it?” he asks groggily, rubbing at his eyes.
“You fell asleep in bed!” you hiss, eyes wide with panic. And from the smell of it, his parents were already awake. Just perfect.
“Oh my god, this is so embarrassing. Do you think they noticed?!” you ask urgently, rooting around for your clothes on the floor.
Clark relinquishes a deep sigh, leaning on his elbows as his head thunks back against the headboard in defeat. “Knowing my Ma, definitely.”
“Oh my god,” you repeat, standing now. “She’s going to know that we- that you—”
“Sweetheart, we’re engaged,” Clark reassures you. “And…adults, before that. She’s not that ignorant. And she won’t hate you if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s just…a little, well. I guess it is a little, uh, mortifying.”
Your head falls into your hands, and Clark has the audacity to chuckle. “Maybe she didn’t notice,” you say. “Maybe she hasn’t checked your room yet, and you can still—”
As if by divine intervention, a swift knock sounds at the door.
“Breakfast’s ready, honey. Taters and eggs, and bacon fresh from the butcher.”
“Oh, alright! Be out in a few, Ma. Thank you!” you call out, hoping you sound less shaky then you feel. Even if she hadn’t noticed yet, she definitely heard you talking to each other, and there’s no way you could explain that.
Then, with an air of mischief lining her Midwestern twang, Ma adds, “tell Clark there’s plenty for him, too!"
A dress wouldn't stop Scott at a very public movie premiere, especially when you've got nothing underneath.
▸ PAIRING: Actor!Scott Miller x Co-Star!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, pure pwp, scott is mean (he is his own warning fr), nasty sex, fingering, finger in mouth, creampie, penetration without protection!, breeding kink, degradation, pussy pronouns, semi-public sex, jealous!scott, possessive!scott, reader is clueless, scott is silently (grumpily) yearning (what's new)
▸ WORD COUNT: 5.1K
▸ A/N: you know those pictures did something to me. activated me like a sleeper agent. first fic i've finished in a while and it's just pure brainrot smut. hope you enjoy!!!! i appreciate all comments and reblogs, and ofc likes! <33
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“Shhh, didn’t I tell you to keep it down?” Scott rumbles in your ear, a hand sliding over your mouth to muffle your whine. You squirm back against him on instinct when his other palm slides over your thigh and hikes up your skirt.
Pressed up against the wall, you shiver when he grins against your skin.
“No panties? You’re practically beggin’ for it, sweetheart.”
This asshole knows it’s the dress that’s draped over you like water. Any piece of fabric underneath — no matter how small — would show, and that would create a field day with the press because god forbid a woman wears underwear. Unfortunately for you, that means you’ve felt every breeze that slithers between your legs during this outdoor premiere.
Fortunately for Scott, that means easy access to your leaking cunt.
And you have been leaking. And he knows that.
The two of you had been prepared separately, which meant that you arrived in different cars. The main star of the movie needs his own limousine after all. It wasn’t until he showed up on the red carpet — smug smiles, blue eyes bright behind those tinted sunglasses — that you could feel saliva pool on your tongue.
He really is built for this life. Slicked back brunette hair that’s grown out since you last saw him, curling around the nape of his neck — your fingers twitch with the urge to tangle in them and pull. You shudder thinking about how he’d growl in your ear about you being a brat, his hand landing with a loud smack on your ass the way he’s done before in the privacy of your hotel room.
He had greeted you with that charming grin, dimpled and dashing. His suit, while oversized, served to emphasize his broad shoulders even more. Perched on his nose is a pair of sunglasses he had used in the movie, a little Easter egg. But you know him better than that — he knows what he’s doing when he greets you with a wink behind them. He’s fucked you in those glasses after all.
Then he was sliding an arm around your waist, encouraging you to smile at the cameras. The flashes were blinding and your smile faltered when his hand drifted lower to grope your ass. Your chest rises when your breath catches. The unseen movement is not enough to send the media into a frenzy, but it is enough to give them a taste of the “true” nature of your relationship.
Your chemistry is undeniable. The two of you have proven it time and time again — from the screen test, to the table-read, and obviously the shoot. You used to think the spark was a myth, that chemistry was only a class taught in school, but meeting Scott had proven you wrong. It felt like you had been doused in a mixture that had you shocked by lightning.
Tension hangs in a delicate balance in your interactions. Lingering touches and coy smiles shared in between biting remarks and heated debates that would send the staff scurrying off set.
That initial spark had combusted into a blazing firestorm that no amount of water could cease. To the press, the two of you are costars who play great lovers on screen. Professionals who know how to perform the greatest love story ever told.
Behind the scenes, you have never been more certain of anything than your hatred for Scott Miller.
He is a pompous, nepo douchebag who keeps getting handed opportunities in big productions on a silver platter because his daddy’s a hotshot executive at a major studio while his mom is an internationally renowned director. His success has been set in stone since birth.
On the other hand, you had to crawl with dirt under your nails through shitty toothpaste commercials, a torturous waitressing job, and all the terrible, misogynistic producers who tried to cop a feel since “it’s the only way you’ll make it in this industry, honey.”
But the moment Scott flashed that smirk at you — no, not the one he uses to manipulate the media and his fans, it’s that devilish grin that gives you a glimpse of the man underneath — you were a goner. Beneath all those charismatic smiles and PR-trained lines is a sincerely, truly, terribly nasty man who unfortunately knows how to give it good.
Due to your resolve or lack thereof, he has — in fact — given it to you good. Multiple times. Again and again. No matter how many times you tell him and yourself that it would be the last time.
In all fairness, Scott is equally enamored by the contradiction between your spiteful words and the way you cave into his touch. He never goes back to the same woman, let alone twice or thrice, but here he is again. His hand on your face and his breath hot against your neck.
You’ve run out of fingers to count how many times you ended up in bed with him over the course of filming. You certainly do not have enough fingers for how many times he’s made you orgasm — with or without the bed.
His coarse palm drags up the smooth skin of your thigh until he circles to the front, until he finds the sweetness between your legs. Your thighs part on instinct, a practiced response to his touch. His lips curve against the back of your exposed shoulder, pleased.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, a finger stroking between your pussy lips. You can feel your slick clinging onto his skin. “I knew you were going to be wet for me. You’re always so ready.”
“We have to go back, Scott,” you squirm against him, a futile attempt to push him off you. He instead closes in around you, trapping you against the wall until you can’t find room to inhale air into your lungs. You can feel his erection pressing up against your ass, firm and warm even between two layers of separation. His proximity has your temperature rising, worsened by the blood rushing between your legs. “Are you insane? We can’t do this here!” You hiss, your fingers trying to pry his hand off you but he’s much, much stronger than you. “There are thousands of people outside.”
“Then you best bite your tongue, sweetheart,” he exhales as he pushes a finger in, drawing a whimper from your throat. You clamp down around him, squeezing around the one thick digit buried deep inside you. “You know I love how noisy you are, but I’m gonna need you to keep quiet if you don’t want anyone catching you like this.”
“You’re a piece of shit,” you snap breathlessly. “We still have press to do.”
“They can wait, I just need five minutes.”
A snarky laugh escapes you before you can swallow it. You’ll pay for that later.
He curls his finger inside of you, nail scraping your walls as your thighs squeeze around his hand. “I could drag it out if that’s what you want,” he sneers, “could have you dripping all over the red carpet like a dog. I’m gonna make you beg me to finish you out there in front of everyone. Bend you over the barricades so the photographers can see the way you look when you’ve got my cock inside you. Tease you until you’re a crying mess; lord knows I’ve done that before. Is that what you want?”
Scott is a lot of things but he isn’t a liar. He keeps his word and the last thing you need is for you to be exposed, tits out, ass up in public, pleading for him to finish you with the entire world watching. So you grit your teeth, swallow your pride, and shake your head.
“Ask me for it.”
You throw a glare over your shoulder.
“Nicely.”
“Go fuck yourself,” you snarl before you can think twice.
Scott twists his finger inside you. “I could. I’ll put you on your knees right here and I’ll jerk my cock over your pretty face. Gonna have you stick your tongue out and wait for me to finish like the obedient girl that you are,” he laughs, bitter, but it makes your insides curl with need, “but then you’ve got to explain why you’ve got cum all over this stunner of a face. All those hours in the makeup chair only for me to paint it pretty with my cum.”
You hate how your body burns with need. How much you like the thought of it. You picture yourself on the cold, hard ground. Your jaw falling open in an eager bid for him to feed you his cock. Knees bruising while he strokes his length over your face, taunting you with the red, leaking tip, tapping it against your hungry mouth. Your lips would part in a request to taste and all he would offer you is a brush of precum on your cheek.
He wouldn’t give you what you want, not if you were acting up all night. He’d finish on your face and you’d be left there with a smattering of white on your skin, hanging from your lashes, and only a dribble in your tongue.
“Now, ask me nicely.”
“Seriously, Scott, go fuck yourself.”
His fingers dig into your cheeks, prying your jaw open as he turns you to face him. His eyes are still hidden behind those glasses, a wall between the two of you as if he’s putting you in your place. You exposed bare and vulnerable to him while he can’t even be bothered to remove his shades to properly look at you.
A thumb presses down onto your tongue, enough pressure to have you whining in the ache. “This mouth of yours,” he mutters, “I’m gonna fuck it later. I want your throat sore enough that you can’t open it again to mouth me off.” Scott dips his head, nose grazing the column of your neck. A hum vibrates from his mouth and straight into your veins. “But damn if I don’t want to taste it.”
He kisses the corner of your lips softly, just enough to smudge his lips with the gloss coated on yours.
“Tastes like strawberry,” he notes thoughtfully, “this new?”
It is. You’re surprised he noticed. “Mhmm,” you mindlessly respond as he flattens his tongue on your neck.
He seems pleased with that, judging by his delighted hum, as he drags out his finger to tease your folds. He separates the sticky mess with his two fingers, knowing how much you like feeling that gentle wind slip between your thighs. It makes you feel exposed, raw.
Then he pushes two fingers in, a stretch that feels familiar yet unknown at the same time. “Always so tight for me,” he breathes out in a growl, “it’s like I haven’t been fucking you stupid for months now. You’d think this pussy would be loose with how much I’ve made you cry with my cock.”
Another protest rests on your tongue, but it doesn’t make it out alive when Scott begins to scissor you open. “Shit, Scott,” you curse, “‘s so tight.”
“I know, baby, you’re just too good for me. You always spoil me rotten with this tight pussy of yours. It’s like fucking you for the first time each time.”
His other hand travels over the loose cowl neckline of your dress, slipping underneath the fabric to cup your tits. He lets out a moan when he realizes you aren’t wearing anything underneath this either. His fingers toy with you nipple, pinching and twisting, electricity zapping through every nerve in your body. Your back arches, chest pushed into his hand.
Then he opens his mouth again, “Ask me nicely, sweetheart.”
And this time, you cave. Your lips part without your consent; a mind of its own when you whisper, “Please fuck me.”
A guttural groan rises from his chest as he drives his fingers deeper inside of you. “That’s my girl. How can I deny you when you ask me so sweetly? You’re going to make a mess of my sleeve at this rate, sweetheart.”
Your eyes fall to where his wrist is tucked between your legs, fingers fully buried inside your aching cunt where you’re currently dripping all over his fingers. His digits glisten in the dim lighting of the hallway, some semblance of privacy — or at least that’s what you tell yourself when Scott sinks his teeth into your shoulder.
“S-Scott!” You bark, “I don’t need fucking teeth marks when I go back out there.”
His tongue laps up the spot where he’s just left his indentation. He looks far too proud of his handiwork. “You don’t like me marking my territory? Thought you’d want everyone out there to know that we’re in love. We have to sell the movie, don’t we?”
“I’d rather choke than have people think I actually like you.”
“Careful what you wish for, baby,” he hums when his hand slides back up around your neck. His fingers press in gently on the sides, enough to have your breath hitching in your throat. The restriction has you a little dizzy, the size of his hand against your neck even more so. “Maybe you are telling the truth,” he mocks with a grin.
He pumps his fingers in and out of you, the squelch echoing down the empty corridor, mingling with the muffled noise from the crowd outside. You can hear Scott’s phone vibrating in his pocket, probably his manager.
“We have to make this fast. I can’t have Javi come looking for me, don’t want him to see how gorgeous you look like this. How pretty your pussy is when it’s eating up my cock. I don’t need him to see the expression on your face when you’re getting filled up and stretched out.”
“Then move it along, Miller,” you gripe with a roll of your eyes.
His lips twitch, a mix of amusement and annoyance based on the flash of his eyes. With his fingers still inches deep inside you, you hear the clink of his belt as he works to free himself.
Fabric rustles behind you and before you can think about what that means, he’s yanking his fingers out. The loss leaves you gasping and you’re about to turn to snap at him when his hands find your waist, gripping it tight as he positions you in front of him. He bends you down, your hands splayed out against the wall, letting out a hiss when he teases his cock along your slippery entrance. “She’s drooling all over me, baby. It’s like she’s beggin’ for me to fill her up.”
Another one of your snappy replies dies in your throat, melting into a choke when he buries himself all the way in. The slide in is too easy, but the burn comes as an aftermath — intense, like your entire body has been set in flames from the inside out. Fire licking every inch of your skin. It’s the kind of pain that makes you want to ask for more, to make you feel more.
It makes you feel alive, a reminder that this is real. A reminder that this is exactly where you want to be.
Scott begins to thrust into you, short grunts leaving his lips as he practically manhandles you like a ragdoll. He bullies his thick cock deep into your weeping pussy, your entire body trembling with the force of his movements. “Shit, so fuckin’ tight. This is exactly what I needed. I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about what dress you’d have on tonight. I couldn’t stop praying to whatever higher power lives above that you wouldn’t have anything on underneath it. You’re a dream come true, sweetheart.”
You almost mock him for being so sentimental, but you’re too busy having your body and brains scrambled with the way he angles his hips, the friction mind-numbingly delicious as he fucks deep inside your pussy. Every scrape of his cock is another strike of lightning. A chemical reaction that seems to only happen with him.
“Tell me you wanted this as much as I did,” he rasps, “tell me you’ve been thinking about my cock too.”
“Jesus, Miller, really?”
He licks his lips. “Yeah, really. We went from seein’ each other every day, from me shapin’ this pretty cunt to my cock and hearing those gorgeous moans bouncing off our walls, to zero contact. Missed you and your cute little noises and this beautiful, tight cunt.”
Your heart skips with something you may mistake for endearment. One that may be contagious from the man who’s currently shoving his fat cock inside of you. But that couldn’t be — because you hate Scott Miller.
It doesn’t matter that he defended you once against that asshole director. It doesn’t matter that he started staying the night in those last few weeks of shooting. It definitely doesn’t matter that he leaves tender kisses on your spine before he buries his face between your legs, rutting into the bed until he comes untouched from eating your pussy alone.
It shouldn’t matter because Scott hates you too.
However, right now, he makes you think otherwise. Despite his reputation and your own preconceived notions, he really is a good actor. You imagine he enjoys method acting with how soft he could be with you at times. Gentle in the way he holds you and tucks you into his chest in the wake of your tryst. Affectionate in the way he laughs whenever you accidentally bite your tongue, practicing your lines in bed with him.
The last thing you want is to fall for his charms — his act that he’s perfected over the years to literally fuck all of his leading ladies. You’re another notch in his belt and, for some reason, the thought makes you sick.
“What happened there?” Scott asks, slowing down his thrusts.
You don’t need to turn around to see his brows puckered in a frown, concern seeping into his voice. You tighten your pussy, hoping that it would distract him from your thoughts. “What? Just keep fucking me.”
“No, lost you there for a second,” he insists, “what happened?”
“Nothing,” you snap, “can you please just fuck me so we can go back out there?”
“You’re really not gonna tell me?”
Tossing a withering look over your shoulder, you snip back, “Either you fuck me or I’ll find Tyler Owens to finish the job.”
That seems to do the trick. But it also seems to be the wrong thing to say because you can feel his entire body tense, his fingers digging deeper into your flesh. His stare through his glasses is icy, the kind of fire that runs your blood cold.
“Wanna run that by me again?”
You swallow. No, no, you don’t.
Scott is merciless then. He fucks fast and deep and hard into you, your body shaking with the force of his thrusts. You have no doubt you’ll see bruises in the shape of his fingerprints on your waist tomorrow, but that’s a concern for another time. Right now, you’re too caught up in the delicious burn between your legs. Your core screaming that it’s too much but also begging for more all at once.
His cock is long and reaches the parts of you you could never do on your own. You hate to admit that you’ve bought toys that match his length in the months since you last saw him but none of them could satisfy you the way he does.
Because Scott is mean when he fucks and god do you fucking love it.
“You think you can threaten me with Owens? I eat that asshole for breakfast. Think he has Oscars sitting on his shelves at home? Think his bank account’s enough to keep you happy, sweetheart? You think his cock will satisfy you?”
You’ve clearly touched a sore spot but you’re enjoying it far more than you’d like to admit. Jealousy is a known friend to you when Scott is the man that he is. However, you never thought that you could poke the bear with him when it comes to you and other men.
“Do you want everyone to see what a slut you are? Spreading your legs for your co-star who you claim to hate? This pussy’s soakin’ my cock, sweetheart. Deny it all you want but this pretty cunt of yours never lies. I’m the only one who gets you leakin’ like this. I’m the only one who gets to fuck you like this.”
Your heart slams against your ribs, your hands slipping on the wall. He doesn’t let you fall, holding you up and pinning your hands onto the surface with his. His nose nudges into your neck as he breathes you in again. His cock twitches inside of you even when he’s brutally fucking you.
“I’m in you raw, baby,” Scott drawls in your ear, breath warm as he lets out a chuckle. “Imagine if I knocked you up. Imagine the headlines. Whore actress pregnant because she couldn’t stop letting her coworker cum inside her tight little cunt.”
“Fuck you, Miller,” you spit out.
“Already doin’ that,” he grins, punctuating his point with a deep thrust. You crane your neck up to see how his hands dwarf yours, slotted so perfectly into his palms as he places a kiss on your back. “Do you know how many times I fucked my fist to the thought of you? Picturing it was your tight pussy wrapped around my cock instead of my hand. I can still hear your moans rattling around inside my brain. ‘S not enough though. Wanna record you so I can jack myself off to your cute whines next time. Gonna make you beg me, gonna make you say my name again and again until I’m creaming inside you.”
You can lie and say the thought has never crossed your mind before. However, when your entire life is to be in front of cameras, it’s natural for your imagination to wander that way. What it would be like to film your own sex tape — without all the staff, without the intimacy coordinator, without a script.
Only you and him and the weight of this heated relationship.
“I can feel it, she likes that idea,” Scott huffs out a laugh, “felt you tighten around me. Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ll make it happen. I’ll even get myself a nice camera to make sure I capture every inch of you in high definition. Then I’ll make you watch me make you cum with my hands between these pretty thighs, make you squirt to the sight of yourself.”
His imagination is a beast of its own. You don’t know how he comes up with these scenarios, but you can’t complain. Not when you’re the sole beneficiary.
“Better keep your word, Miller,” you say, voice hoarse with desire.
“I always do,” he smirks. “Shit, sweetheart, you keep squeezing me like that I’m gonna cum in you right now.”
“Nothing’s stopping you,” you say a little too casually.
Scott partially freezes. “What?”
“I’m on the pill. Always have been.”
His jaw clenches, eyes darkening even behind the tinted shades. “You never let me cum in you. It’s always a condom.”
“You have one on you?”
There’s no way his manager would let him step outside with condoms in his pockets, lest he risks them falling out and that would be another scandal that Javi has to clean up. “No,” Scott bites out, fingers squeezing your waist. “Are you sure? I was going to pull out.”
“And what? Leave evidence all over this floor?”
He looks conflicted, a flicker of worry crossing his eyes. It’s strange to see concern on his face. You’re used to the glowers, the scowls, the irritation etched into the lines of his forehead.
You roll your eyes again. “If you don’t want to cum in me, just say so.”
He interrupts far too quickly, “I never said that.”
“Then shut up and fuck me.”
Scott groans, leaning forward with his forehead on your back. “You fuckin’ spoil me, sweetheart.” For some reason, the pet name sounds a little sweeter now.
His pace is relentless. He fucks into you without slowing down once. He listens to what makes you moan, what makes you twitch, what makes your pussy clench around him, and he does it over again until you’re quivering before him, around him. You can barely hold yourself up anymore and Scott’s the only thing keeping you propped up. Your hair is probably a mess and your skin is shiny with sweat.
But you can’t bring yourself to care, not when he’s fucking you so damn good.
“I could knock you up right now, you know. Those pills aren’t a hundred percent,” he grunts, but the movement of his cock betrays how much he indulges in that idea. “I could ruin your entire career, baby. Have you swollen with my baby. But don’t worry, I’ll take care of you. You know I will. You won’t have to lift a finger with me.”
In your lust-addled mind, the thought sounds far too tempting. You curve into his touch again, practically preening with the idea.
“Lord knows I can’t have you act in any more romance movies. Not where you have to be with another man,” Scott snarls, “I’m gonna make sure you never get those roles again. If you have to kiss anyone or fuck anyone, it’s going to be me. You don’t have to worry, sweetheart. I’ll get you in the biggest movies. I’ll make sure they treat you so good.”
Scott’s hips stutter as he promises you this. He’s close.
“Gonna make sure the only cock you’ll have is mine. No one else is going to touch this pussy, I’ll make sure of it.”
“Possessive asshole,” you laugh, the sound breaking off into a moan as he thrusts harder into you. Faster, deeper. Your stomach coils with that familiar warmth, your lungs squeezed tight until you’re scrambling for air.
“You’re mine, sweetheart. I ain’t never letting anyone touch you again. You get me?”
You can only groan with his claim.
“You get me?” He snaps, louder this time. Loud enough that the sound will surely carry to outside.
It’s only then you realize that the slapping of skin against skin, his thighs against yours as he sinks his cock into you echoes far too clearly in this passageway. Anyone could walk in here and see you, hear you. They’ll see you take Scott’s cock like another one of his girls. Another one that bit the bullet and fell into his lap.
But you don’t care. Scott wants you. Right here, right now — what he wants is you.
And that thought sends you over the edge as your orgasm snaps through you, pulling a gasp from your lips as your body quakes and tightens around him. That’s all it takes for Scott to finish too, liquid lava spilling inside of you as his hips twitch upwards, like he’s plugging his cum in deep inside of you. Not letting a single drop go to waist.
His moan reverberates straight through you, leaving a tingling in your fingertips as you press them deeper into the wall.
A shudder wracks through him as he feels you pulse around his cock, milking his length dry of every last drop. A sticky mess clinging to your walls. “Fuck,” he mutters, “I could get used to this.”
A giggle slips out and you see him smile over your shoulder. “I don’t think so, buddy. This was a one-time thing.”
“That’s what you always say,” Scott grumbles. He looks down at where the two of you are joined, frowns when he sees his cum beginning to leak out, and pushes depeer inside of you.
He draws out another groan. “Shit, we have to clean up before we go back out there.”
Shaking his head, he slowly pulls out of you but keeps you bent so he can admire his handiwork. You can feel his cum leak out of your cunt, his thumb opening up your pussy lips to allow the milky white liquid to dribble down your thighs.
Pursing his lips, he drags that drop back up to your pussy and pushes it back in with his thumb. “No.”
“No?” You gape, “Scott, everyone’s going to see.”
“Let them,” he shrugs.
“Screw you. You might still have a career after fucking me, but I certainly won’t if they find out I’ve been letting you fuck me.”
Scott’s tongue presses against the inside of his cheek as he rearranges your dress to cover you up again. You can still feel his cum rolling warm down between your thighs, you pressing your legs together does nothing to hide the fact that you’ve got it in a gooey mess all over your skin.
“I won’t let that happen,” he says.
“You can’t possibly guarantee that.”
“I can and I will. You take my hand right now and we’ll go out there. I won’t let them touch a hair on that head of yours.”
You’ve never heard him sound so sure. Determination in his voice and confidence in his outstretched hand.
“I promise,” he emphasizes.
Despite the rapid beating of your heart and your brain screaming at you to have some common sense, you extend your hand and take his. His hand is warm and large around yours. Your shoulders slacken as you lean into him.
He smiles as he tugs you closer. “I’ll protect you. Always will.”
“Big words, Miller,” you mutter, grimacing when you feel another drop down your thighs. “Wait ‘til you get your next movie and your next leading lady, you’ll be singing a different tune.”
It’s his turn to roll his eyes. “Such little faith in me. I’m a man of my word, sweetheart.”
“That’s what they all say.”
He pauses before the two of you walk out those doors again. The way he’s looking at you now, calm and composed, appraising you, makes you squirm.
“Quit looking at me like that.”
“Trying to figure out if you’re fucking dense or an idiot.”
Your jaw drops. “What the fuck?”
“I meant it when I said I’m not letting another man touch you. I don’t give a fuck if it’s for a movie.”
“Green isn’t a good color on you.”
“Well, I don’t like it on you either, especially not when I’ve made my promise to you.”
Your heart flutters, butterflies flapping around your chest like they have any right being there.
“Now, if you’re done questioning my intentions, shall we go back out there?”
Without another word, you nod. You can question his intentions another day. Tonight, you have a movie to promote.
scott is yearning for (taglist): @unabashedlyinlovewithyou @eiaf4uwn @thebabykashmere @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @pinksplace @stanmarvelous @coffinlolz @chloluvsdilfs @athenxt @xreader1989 @theonlyaphrodite @wowitsafemale @yagurlannastasia @lettucel0ver @velvetnightmoonsandbows @tushy4toot @hoodharlow @lichi-dunkera @mansaaay @yagurlannastasia @fruitypebsworld @solynoche
໒ྀི 𝖘ynopsis: for as long as you've known him, you've been in love with your bestfriend, zuko. you were good at covering it up, but there was one issue: he won't stop cuddling you! (ft. modern!zuko)
໒ྀི 𝖜ord count: 5.3k
໒ྀི 𝖗ating: 18+, fluff, a little angst, p in v sex, unprotected sex, choking, half of a creampie, oral (fem receiving), smut without plot
Zuko was upset again.
You could tell just from the way he walked into your apartment, muscles rippling underneath his red number 1 jersey, lips set in a thin line and his messy hair falling from the bun he had put in before he left for his game.
He slammed the door behind him, sliding his cleats off with an annoyed huff when he couldn't get them undone as fast he wanted. Then he's ripping his jersey off and tossing it across the living room without a care to where it landed.
You were too sick and tired to yell at him that just because you had given him a key (for emergencies btw) doesn't mean he can just trash the place! Instead you just watched from the couch with a piece of tissue sticking out your left nostril, your favorite fuzzy blanket pulled up to your chest as you lay your head on the arm rest.
Zuko didn't even say anything when he finally looked at you, just huffed and frowned before moving to you and ripping your blanket off.
"Hey! I was using- ah!" You yelp when he freefalls onto your body face first, his large frame squishing you deeper into the couch as he nuzzles his face in the crook of your neck and mumbles, his rough voice muffled and vibrating against your skin.
"I'll keep you warmer."
Your body goes into shock although Zuko cuddling you was nothing new. You two had been best friends since you were in diapers as your dad was best friends with his. You were as thick as thieves and maybe a few years ago this wouldn't have bothered you but now that you were sporting the biggest crush on him, possibly in love with him, it made your heart leap.
The way his hot breath blew onto your skin left it tingling as goosebumps formed on your arms. Just when you were going to tell him to move, he wraps both arms underneath you and tightly around your waist. He presses his body deeper and you actively have to fight back the urge to moan because his body was in fact warming you better than the blanket could.
Zuko was always heated like a furnace and you often joked that in another life he must have been able to wield fire.
"I'm guessing the game didn't go the way you wanted?" You allow a hand to rise, fingers scratching at his head in an effort to comfort him despite your own desperate state.
He simply groans and presses a kiss to your neck and you just about died. Your chest tightened with need, the knot coursing through your body until it landed between your thighs and you were aching with lust.
You laugh to keep yourself from groaning, spread your legs just a little wider so he could get more comfortable and so you could feel him better.
"Lost by one point, it's not fair. I carried that team, it was basically me vs eleven people."
You knew how passionate Zuko was about soccer and how talented he was. You both had been signed up when you were children, though you had switched to gymnastics only a few months later. He was competitive and to lose was a huge blow to his ego. This wasn't the first time he came to your house after and cuddled you.
You knew this was completely platonic, nothing romantic about it but a small part of you couldn't help but grow hopeful because despite the many cuddle sessions you shared, he'd never kissed you before. Was his anger clouding his judgement or was he trying to tell you he felt the same but couldn't say it?
Childhood trauma made it hard for him to communicate his feelings.
"That's still a win for you, but I get it. Wanna talk about it more?"
You take in a sharp breath when he lifts his head and stares down at you, his huge frame covering yours as he shakes his head no.
"Can you wash my hair after I shower?" Zuko's golden eyes burn into yours and your stomach is breakdancing, heart skipping a few beats as your pupils widen to truly take him in.
The way his hair fell into his face, half covering the scar on his left eye that he had gotten when you were young, skin tanned and glowing from the summer sun creeping through the curtains.
He was so beautiful that it was unfair. You wanted him to be yours, to pull his head down and finally kiss his lips, especially when he let his eyes drift to yours. You watched his throat as he swallowed and adjusted his body above you, his hips digging into yours.
"Yes." You whisper and swallow, annoyed that your cold wasn't letting you fully enjoy this moment, suddenly self conscious of the fact that you had tissue shoved into your nostril and probably looked ridiculous.
"If you don't squish me to death first."You awkwardly laugh and squirm when he doesn't respond and only tilts his head and smiles.
"Hmm, deal." Then his body is leaving yours and you regret ever saying anything.
You washed his hair that night and cried yourself to sleep later when he mentioned he had a date to get to, someone Sokka had introduced him to, but he would text you later to let you know how it went.
The next "cuddle" session had nearly gone your way and you wanted to curse your friend's entire bloodlines for ruining it.
It was a month after his game and you were sitting on his kitchen counter, idly scrolling through TikTok as Zuko moved about the room making dinner. You'd occasionally lift your head to sneak a look, pussy throbbing every time your eyes caught the way his compression shirt hugged his chest.
Zuko wasn't disgustingly ripped, you know, like how some guys were all muscles and veins to the point where it was unattractive. He sported the perfect athletic body thanks to years of soccer, wide shoulders with a narrow waist and his muscles were well defined.
He was perfect in every way possible. He had even decided to let his hair fall loose when you complained that he always had it up and it would start to knot if he didn’t free it every once in a while.
Twenty minutes pass with you scrolling and Zuko humming a song while standing over the stove. When a video popped up with that trend of girlfriends seeing if their boyfriends would grunt when lifting them up, you were instantly jumping down and practically skipping to your friend with a devious smile on your face.
"Zuuukooo. Hey, can we try this trend?" You stand to his side and shove the phone up into his face.
He squinted as he looked at the screen, shaking his head as he smiled and then sighed. He lowered the temperature on the stove and dropped the mixing spoon on the counter, turning to you and before you could process what was happening, you were in the air.
Zuko had lifted you without grunting and your face burned as you gasped and wrapped your arms around his neck to keep from falling, though his grip on your waist was tight enough. Both hands handling onto each side of you, your feet well off the ground as your legs dangled.
Zuko hadn't broken a sweat, pulling your body closer and your legs wrapped around him out of pure survival instinct. You pulled your face back to stare at him, words lost as your brain turned into goo. Your friend was a different kind of beast for sure.
"Now what? Do I get a treat for passing?" He's smirking and you wanted to throttle him, his words vibrating through your body and making your cunt clinch against nothing.
He had no idea the effect he had on you.
"I don't have anything to give you." You whisper and gulp when his eyes travel to your lips, just as they did last time. Butterflies were clogging your chest and stomach, your brain short-circuiting.
"Hmm." He pulls your body closer, hands moving to grip your ass for better leverage. "I'm sure there's something yo-"
A loud knock came from the front door and was followed by the sound of four giggling voices. Toph yelling for Zuko to open up. The man holding you grunts and rolls his eyes, lowering you and not moving his hands until your feet are back on the ground.
You were going to kill them violently.
As your friends all pile into the kitchen and Zuko resumes his cooking, you both can't help but steal secretive looks at each other. Well not that secretive since Katara noticed, because of course she did. You were too flushed, too lost to your thoughts to see the way she'd look between you both with a knowing smile.
You went home beyond horny that night, your rose toy turning on the moment your body hit your bed, a certain 6'2 soccer player on your mind.
The third cuddle session that changed things between you two was after your date went horribly wrong. The guy was terrible, he only talked about himself and refused to let you get a word in unless you were responding to something he said.
He was far from your type and when you apologized and told him you didn't think this was going to work, he fumed and told you that you weren't his kind of girl anyways. That hadn't bothered you but what did was the way he stormed out and left you with the bill.
You covered it but it would hurt your pockets since you were a broke college student with rent to pay and didn't have money to waste on losers like him. When Zuko had picked you up and you told him what happened, he apologized, offered to refund you for the bill and asked if you wanted him to find the man and make him apologize for disrespecting you.
You were fuming in the passenger seat of his car, arms crossed against your chest as you glared out the window watching the lights and buildings fly by.
"No, please just take me home."
Zuko only nods, tightening his hand around the wheel as his own anger burns hot. You could practically feel the heat simmering off his skin, his jaw taut as he focused on the road ahead. You’d think he was the one that was slighted.
When he pulled up outside your place, he killed the engine and looked at you, his eyes full of concern for the girl he had grown up with. "Want me to come in with you? I can stay until you feel better."
You were nodding without hesitation and thanking the gods that you had your own place outside of campus.
That's how you ended up with his chest pressed against your back, arm tightening around you as he pulled you close and tangled his leg with yours. Best friends cuddled all the time right? There was no reason for your body to be reacting the way it did, stomach twist as you felt his semi-hard cock press into your ass.
This was totally normal, even if your face turned into a furnace and your heart told you this was in fact, far from normal. You’d never cuddle with Sokka or Aang like this.
"You didn't deserve that, I'm sorry love." He breaks through your thoughts.
The way he whispered your nickname sent shivers through your body. It was something he had called you for the twenty plus years you knew each other but now that you were sure you were in love with him, it made the name feel too endearing.
You flipped in his arms so that you could see his face and the sight of him laying in your bed was so domestic, you could feel your body start to melt. The way he stared at you, mouth slightly open, eyes holding your gaze while his hand moved to your hip and rubbed circles on your exposed skin.
"Do you think I'm unloveable?" You whisper. The question wasn't because your date didn't think you were his type, more so that he had stormed off and left you sitting there like you meant nothing.
Zuko glares, seeming annoyed that you were letting some loser ruin your mood this much. It was unlike you but he had no idea that as your feelings grew for him so did your insecurities.
How could he ever want a girl like you? You didn't seem like someone he'd be attracted to based on his dating history and you hated that it made you question your own looks.
"How could you be unloveable when I love you?"
Your face flushed and you wiggle an inch away, eyes wide and heart stopping as he pulled you back.
"You can't just say things like that, plus it doesn't count. We've been friends for so long that you have no choice but to care for me. Don’t tease me, jerk."
He smirks and reaches down to grab your leg, lifting it over his hip so that he could pull you closer. You were sure your panties were ruined.
He perched his head onto his hand and stared down at you, a loose strand of hair falling from his bun. He moved his other hand from your leg and used it to feel the skin of your cheek, fingers moving until they gripped your chin.
Had you died? That was the only explanation for this heavenly feeling you were experiencing, your entire body trembling under his stare as you lost yourself to his eyes.
"Don't say stupid things then (name). It makes me irrationally mad."
"But it's true. How could someone love me-"
"Shut up."
The world tilted when he smashed his lips against yours, your body sinking embarrassingly fast into his. You locked your legs around his hips when he pushed you onto your back with his body placed on top of yours.
You both moan into the kiss, lips parting when his tongue rubs against them asking for permission. Your arms wrap around his neck to pull him closer, neither of you coming up for air until you lifted your hips to grind against his hard cock and he was pulling away to gasp.
"Fuck- don't do that love. I'm barely controlling myself right now, don't wanna disrespect you." And despite his words, his hips still grind into you and the way his cock rubs against your clothed pussy has you tossing your head back with a moan until he pulls you back.
"Please? It'll make me feel better, I need you so bad Zuko."
You blink at him with wide doe eyes and long lashes and his self control snaps as he pushes his lips against yours again, one hand grabbing your leg to keep it around his waist, the other pushed into the bed above your head so he could hold himself up.
"If I do this, there's no going back. You'll be mine only, I don't share."
Was this really happening right now? Zuko never showed any signs of being interested in you and while you were happy he shared the same feelings, you were genuinely confused, blinking up at your best friend with furrowed eyebrows.
"Do you- I didn't think you were interested in that way."
Zuko's chuckling, leaning down to place a kiss on your brow before pulling back to look at you again, golden eyes shining with amusement and lust.
"Did you think I was cuddling you for the sake of it? I've been in love with you since I was eleven, I just didn't think you felt the same until that day in my kitchen."
Tears well up in your ears and when one slips free, Zuko leans forward and kisses it away before taking your lips again, tongues tangling as you lace your fingers into his hair, pulling the hair tie loose and relishing in the way his hair falls free and into your face.
Zuko's softly cradling your face, kissing you like he had years of lost time to make up for and you let out all the love you had locked away for years. All of it pouring into one kiss, the weight of the world lifting off your shoulder because he loved you back and as more than just a friend.
He placed one more kiss to your lips before moving to your neck, licking and sucking hard so it bruises, hands moving to grab your covered tits.
"Quit teasing.. Zuko, s'not.. fair." You managed to say between heavy breaths, chest moving up and down harshly as you fought back the urge to push him back and start riding him without any foreplay.
"Let me take my time, love. Have so much to make up for."
And you keep your mouth shut, biting your lip to keep from crying because this was a dream come true. Zuko loved you, he loved you and this wasn't just your imagination, far better than one of the dreams you so often had.
After another minute he finally moves to sit back on his knees, not wasting any time and pulling your shirt off and then his. You gasp at being so suddenly exposed, not that it was the first time he saw you in a bra but never in this way. Not when he was about to fuck you and truly make you his.
“Just stay still for me, alright? You can do that for me, right baby?” His voice is low and laced with desire, your eyes growing cloudy and mouth filling with drool at the sight of his bare chest. His sweats were hanging low on his hips and the way his dark happy trail disappeared into his red boxers had you soaked.
You nod stupidly, spit forming at the corners of your mouth. He was doing something to your brain because you couldn’t speak, just stared at the man like he hung the moon.
Zuko chuckled, a hand coming down to rub your cheek. “Good girl. Spread your legs for me, love.”
You do as he says, your head spinning and a lump forming in your throat when he pulls your skirt and panties down at the same time. The way he stared down at you after tossing your clothes aside had you a little self conscious, hands going to cover your body but Zuko was faster than you, grabbing it tightly and tossing it aside with a warning glare.
“You’re perfect, stop fucking hiding frome me.”
You almost cry again but swallow your tears and the lump in your throat, choosing instead to focus on the ache between your legs.
Zuko drops to his stomach and moves until his face is between your legs, grabbing them to place on his shoulders, staring up at you with a lifted brow. “Don’t be shy, wrap your legs around me.”
Holy shit, there was no way he couldn’t see the slick dripping down your legs and onto the sheets because you were drenched. His words send you into a frenzy as you do as he says, legs tightening around his head as he smirks and places kisses onto your thighs.
“I’ll show you exactly why I’m much better than those scumbags you keep wasting your time with. Hold onto me, baby.”
He grips your hips and pulls you further down the bed until your cunt was directly on his face.
Zuko starts by licking a long strip from your creamy hole to your clit, moving the pink muscle in circles around the sensitive nub before taking it into his mouth and sucking hard.
“Oh fuck! Zuko, haah that f-feels so good.” Your stomach tingles and tightens as you reach a hand down into his hair and move your hips against his tongue.
You were growing impossibly wetter, your slick covering Zuko’s face as he went to work, groaning against your pussy as he devoured you as though he hadn't eaten in days, all but inhaling you. The way he was so completely lost to you had your stomach tightening all too soon as you cried out, hands tightening around his hair.
“Don’t stop, m’gonna cum.” You cry, literal tears sliding down your face as you tossed your head to the side, face digging into your pillow. Your chest moving too fast as you tried to catch your breath, trying to stop yourself from cumming too fast.
Zuko didn’t stop, in fact he added two fingers to prep you further, instantly curling them to hit that spot that had your squishy walls tightening around him.
You were blindsided by the sudden added pressure and thirty seconds later, you were crying out as sweat beaded on your forehead, pulsing pleasure ripping through you as your orgasm stole your breath. You had never cum so fast in your life, body shaking as you felt every layer of pleasure, Zuko licking and sucking you through it, hand pushing down on your stomach and you swear you came a second time.
You were in bliss as your legs fell back onto the bed, the dark haired man making his way back up your body. He stared down at you as you attempted to catch your breath, face proudly glistening with your juice as he rubbed at your shaking thigh.
Your eyes were slowly shutting, brain rattling from the intense orgasm your best friend had just given you. You should have told him sooner, shouldn't have wasted time secretly obsessing over him when you could have been getting your pussy eaten like that.
“Don’t tell me you’re tapping out already.” His voice was teasing and you opened your eyes to frown at him despite how heavy they felt, still finding it hard to believe that he was above you like this.
He was so beautiful, reaching to pull down his sweats and boxers, just enough to free himself and holy fuck, your best friend was packing. Drool started to seep from the corners of your mouth at the sight of his hard cock teasing you, the tip red and already leaking pre cum.
When you went to sit up in hopes of tasting him, he pushed you back down and when you went to sit up again, he kept his hand at your shoulder to hold you down while he grabbed his cock with his other hand and started dragging his hand up and down, grip tight as he pleasured himself, thumb rubbing at the tip and using his pre as lube.
“Not this time, love. Do you have condoms?”
Your heart dropped. This was really, truly happening. “Y-yes, but you don’t have to wear one. I’m- ahem, I’m clean and I’m on birth control.”
He bites back a smile, chest shaking as he silently laughs. You want to die from embarrassment.
“Do you want me to wear one, baby?”
You didn't, which was unlike you since you never let a guy sleep with you without one, but this was Zuko and you wanted to feel every inch of him, had waited years too. Something primal settling in your chest at the though of him fucking you raw.
So you’re shaking your head no and gasping when he rubs the tip against your wet folds. “Thank god. Need to feel how wet you are.”
You’re nodding like a fool, swallowing hard when he leans down and over you to catch your lips again. It’s soft this time, his lips lightly brushing against yours as he lines himself up with your entrance.
He slowly starts to push in, giving you a second to breathe with every push you take until all eight inches of his cock is deep inside you, Zuko moving his hips in circles to get deep until he completely bottoms out.
His lips are over yours as you breath in each other's air, your eyes squeezing from the sting of the stretch. Zuko was not only long but he was thick and it was taking a minute for you to adjust to his size.
He was patient, littering your faces in sweet, gentle kisses until you bucked against him for more and he was sitting up to grab yours legs, looking down and groaning at the sight of his cock snug in your pussy, walls stretched around him. He pressed your legs to your chest and leaned over you again, slowly moving his hips and fighting the urge to start pounding into you.
You were gripping him so tight, the first raw pussy Zuko had ever been in and he thought his stomach might explode with the way it was twisting. You looked so beautiful underneath him, taking his cock so well like you were always meant to.
“Please move.” You whine, hair fanned out across the sheets you were gripping.
Zuko didn’t waste any more time, already having done that since he first fell for you all those years ago. He was leaning forward again, hands connecting with yours as he placed them above your head. The first thrust he gives is gentle, just enough to prepare you as he holds your stare and slams into you the second time, the bed knocking against the wall as you cry out and close your eyes.
Zuko would have told you to open your eyes any other time but the way your pussy was gripping felt so good that he was closing his own, mind still trying to process that he was really fucking you right now.
All those nights he spent jacking off to the thought you were nothing compared to this, to the way you fit so perfectly around him, your pussy creaming and juices sticking to his abdomen as he started to pick up his pace.
He didn’t want to rush this, but the way you were squirming beneath him, legs pressed to your chest as he pushed deep, had him pounding ruthlessly into you. His anger grew hot at the thought of you wasting your time with those losers, at them having you in this way.
He would show you that he was always the better option and then he’d have you ride him to show him how much better you were than those girls he was never really into.
He leans further down to capture your lips again, cock dragging between your swollen folds as he takes you deep and hard. You were mumbling incoherently, ecstasy taking root in your body as Zuko gripped your throat and moved his hips in circular motions to rub against your clit.
You were on cloud nine as you traded spit, the kiss all teeth and tongue. Your hips started to lift to meet his thrusts and the choked groan Zuko gave, boosted your confidence as you fucked each other.
“So fucking tight, love. Best pussy I ever h-had.”
You’re lost in each other, the only sounds in the room are your heavy breathing and the sound of the bed creaking and banging against the wall. He takes you like that for a bit, your legs pressed against your chest as he basically folds you in half until he lowers them so he can feel your chest pressed against his.
He grabs your chin and tilts your head up so he can kiss your lips again, only pulling back to stare at you.
“Hi, sweetheart.” He huffs out, a groan escaping when you tighten around him at the sound of the endearing pet name.
“Hi.” You whisper back, eyes hooded and your hands in his hair, nails scratching at his scalp.
“I love you. I always- ngggh, I always have.” Zuko confesses, grinding deep and your bottom lip trembles.
“I love you too, more than you know.”
And his eyes start to burn so he’s picking up his pace again, your jelly-like legs wrapping around his hips and pulling him closer to keep him inside of you. He’s so deep that you feel his tip kissing your cervix, your pussy gripping him tight, sucking up his cock and refusing to let go. He would stay there forever if it was up to you.
“Not gonna last long, baby. Shit, you feel too g-good.” He kisses you to cover up the embarrassing moan that almost slipped out, eyes rolling back as the coil in his stomach tightened and threatened to snap. He could feel his balls growing heavy with cum, the human instinct to breed you filling his head.
How beautiful would you look dripping with his seed? The thought had him spiraling, thrust growing erratic.
Your nails are digging into his back, the burn doing nothing but adding to the pleasure he felt. You had no idea that one his kinks was pain, and the way your fingers left marks on his back had him spilling into you with a deep and long groan before he could stop himself.
“Fuuuckkk, I’m cumming baby. Shit, I’m filling you so fucking much.” He cried out, hips snapping sloppily into yours, his crude words sending you over the edge.
You cum hard at the feeling of his hot seed dripping down your ass and onto the bed, Zuko never stopping because this was the longest orgasm of his life. His balls pulsed as he shot rope after rope of hot cum into you, sitting up quickly and pulling out when he remembered he wasn't wearing a condom.
He threw his head back and sang songs of pure lust, gripping his cock and jerking himself as cum spilled from the tip and onto your stomach. It wasn’t a lot as most of it was inside of you, but the sight still left him breathless and hard.
He collapsed on top of you when he was spent, his sticky cum basically gluing you two together. Neither of you say a word as you catch your breath, the smell of sex filling the moonlit room, the reality of what just happened hitting you.
You’re frozen under him, heart skipping beats while your mind raced. Was this a spur of the moment kind of thing? He was just comforting you after a date gone wrong, he couldn’t have meant what he said.. Right?
“Zuko-”
“I love you and I meant it.” He answered every insecure question racing through your head with seven words, knowing you all too well. It made your chest swell with love, the way he always knew what you were going to say before actually saying it as if your souls were connected.
He was your person and you were his.
He lifts up to look at you again, a devious smile spreading across his face as he reaches a hand down and uses two fingers to rub at your swollen clit, slowly moving to your hole and pushing his cum back inside.
“Make no mistake (name), you’re mine and I’m gonna fuck you until every ounce of doubt leaves that pretty little head of yours. Got it?”
The next morning you’re standing in the bathroom, body sore and brushing your teeth when Zuko comes in behind, still half asleep and wearing nothing but his boxers, his hair wild on his head. He stood behind you, arms wrapping around your waist, dropping his head to kiss your shoulder where your shirt hung loose.
“Morning.” Neither of you say another word as he grabs his spare toothbrush he kept at your place, added toothpaste and started brushing his teeth.
He used his other hand to sneak under your shirt and hold onto your boob, squeezing it tiredly as he stared at you in the mirror with half closed eyes and pulled you closer.
You never wanted him to stop cuddling you.
❦ lisa's note: i'd do crazy things to modern zuko, like I need him real bad.
꒰ as requested by the lovely @kiyara-blues5999 ꒱
art by internet famous, divider by @cursed-carmine ♡
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 15, 947
Summary: After an unsettling moment in a parking garage leaves you shaken, Jack does what he does best: listens, steadies you, and teaches you how to get out of someone else’s hold. But close quarters have a way of revealing more than technique, and Jack is very, very good at showing you the difference between being trapped and choosing to stay.
Warnings: 18+ only, explicit sexual content, oral sex, protected sex, praise, light dominance, dirty talk, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, aftercare, self-defense lesson turning sexual, brief mention of being followed in a parking garage, fear/anxiety after a potentially unsafe situation, Jack being very competent and very unfair.
Author’s Note: This one came from the idea of Jack teaching her how to get out of someone’s hold and then showing her what it feels like to be held by someone she trusts. So yes, it is self-defense-adjacent, trust-heavy, and then very quickly becomes Jack being a menace in gray sweatpants. Please mind the warnings, and as always, minors do not interact.
Xoxo, Del
Dinner had been good. Quiet, but good. That was how Jack knew something was wrong. Usually, you had something to say. Usually, you made at least one dramatic noise over the food just to make him roll his eyes. Usually, you poked at him until his mouth twitched and then acted like you had won something.
Tonight, you had thanked him, eaten half your plate, and spent the rest of dinner moving your fork through sauce you were not really tasting.
Now you were wiping down a counter that had already been wiped down twice. Jack watched you from the sink, one hand braced on the counter while the other held a pan under warm water. The kitchen smelled like garlic and dish soap. The house was quiet around you. Warm. Familiar.
You still looked like you were waiting for something to happen.
Jack turned off the faucet. “You’ve been quiet.”
You kept your eyes on the counter. “I’m cleaning.”
Jack reached for the dish towel. “Quietly.”
You dragged the sponge across the same clean stretch of counter. “That is usually how cleaning works.”
Jack dried his hands slowly. “Not with you.”
You glanced at him, and the look almost had your usual bite. Almost. You looked back down at the counter. “I’m fine.”
Jack set the towel down. “I didn’t ask that.”
Your hand paused. “You were going to.”
Jack leaned back against the sink. “No.”
You turned your head slightly, but you did not quite look at him. Jack’s voice stayed even. “Because you would have said that.”
For a moment, the only sound was the faint tick of the cooling stove and the heater humming somewhere under the floor. Then you pressed the sponge flat beneath your palm.
You exhaled, “There was this guy in the parking garage.”
Jack went still. Not dramatically. Not suddenly. But something in him sharpened until you could feel the full weight of his attention settle on you.
You kept your eyes on the counter. “Nothing happened.”
Jack’s voice stayed quiet. “Okay.”
You swallowed. “I mean, I don’t think anything happened. He was just behind me. I turned down a row, and he turned too. Then I looked back, and he was already looking.”
Jack’s jaw shifted once. “At you.”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
He did not ask if you were sure. That almost hurt more than if he had. You rubbed your thumb over the inside of your wrist. “So I walked faster. And then I turned again, because I thought maybe if I was being weird, I could prove it to myself.”
Jack’s brows drew together. “Prove what?”
You gave a small shrug. “That I was making it up.”
Jack’s face softened. “Baby.”
You hated that. Not because he said it. Because it worked.
You looked away. “Maybe he was parked near me. Maybe he was just walking. Maybe I looked insane because I kept checking over my shoulder.”
Jack spoke gently. “Maybe.”
You finally looked at him. Jack held your gaze. “But you thought it might be something.”
Your throat tightened. There it was. So simple. So clean. No argument. No evidence required. No little courtroom where you had to defend the fact that your body had known something before your brain could explain it.
Jack crossed the kitchen slowly. He did not crowd you. He came close enough that you could feel the warmth of him beside you, but he stopped before his body blocked yours in. Jack rested his hand near yours on the counter. “You noticed him. You trusted that something felt wrong. You got to your car. You locked the doors. And you left.”
Your eyes burned. Jack’s voice was gentle. “That’s good.”
You hated how much you needed to hear it. You hated even more that he seemed to know. For a second, neither of you said anything.
Then Jack shifted his hand an inch closer to yours. “You called me after.”
You huffed a small, shaky laugh. “You said you were making food.”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “I did.”
You glanced at him. “And I like food.”
Jack nodded. “I know.”
You lifted one shoulder. “And your house was closer than mine.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Also true.”
You tried for dry. “And you’re very needy.”
Jack’s eyebrow lifted. “I’m needy?”
You pointed the sponge at him. “You invite me over every time you cook.”
Jack leaned one hip against the counter. “I invite you over because you show up.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That is circular logic.”
Jack’s mouth twitched again. “That is not what circular logic means.”
You pointed at him more firmly. “Do not flirt with me using accuracy right now.”
Jack’s expression warmed. You looked away before it could undo you completely. Jack’s voice was softer when he asked, “And?”
You hated him a little for knowing there was an and. You looked down at the counter. “And I wanted to see you.”
Jack’s fingers flexed once against the counter. When you looked back, there was no smugness in his face. No teasing. No dry little joke waiting at the corner of his mouth. Just Jack.
Warm. Steady. Yours. Jack’s voice was low. “I’m glad you did.”
The ache in your chest loosened so suddenly that you had to look away again. You tossed the sponge into the sink with more force than necessary. “I also did the stupid key thing.”
Jack blinked. “The key thing?”
You held up your hand awkwardly. “The thing where you put your keys between your fingers like Wolverine, but sad.”
For one second, Jack just stared at you. Then his mouth twitched. You pointed at him. “Do not laugh.”
Jack held up one hand. “I’m not laughing.”
“You’re doing the Jack version.” You replied.
Jack raised a brow, “The Jack version?”
You nodded. “Where only one percent of your face admits you think I’m funny.”
Jack’s mouth curved another fraction. “That sounds medically precise.”
You set the sponge down. “I work around doctors. I’ve picked up terminology.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to your hand. “It’s common advice.”
You lowered your hand. “But?”
“Not good advice.” Jack stepped closer, slow enough that you had time to move if you wanted to. “Keys move. They can cut into your palm. They weaken your grip.”
You frowned. “I hate that you’re making sense.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “And if someone is close enough for that to matter, they’re close enough to grab you.” Your humor thinned. Jack saw it immediately. His voice softened. “Better principles.”
You looked up. “Principles.”
Jack counted them off calmly. “Create distance. Make noise. Keep moving.” Your eyes dropped to his hands. Jack finished, “Use leverage.”
You stared at him. Of course, Jack Abbot, in gray sweats and a white T-shirt, barefoot in his warm kitchen, knew how to use leverage. Of course, he said it like that. Calm. Practical. Devastating. You lifted your eyes to his. “That sounds like something people say when they know how to leverage.”
Jack’s answer was immediate. “I do.”
Your stomach did something stupid. You tucked your keys into your palm. “That was very ominous.”
Jack’s brow furrowed. “It wasn’t meant to be.”
Your eyes narrowed. “You said ‘I do’ like you were about to reveal a hidden assassin past.”
Jack leaned one hip against the counter. “I don’t have a hidden assassin past.”
You pointed at him, “That sounds exactly like something a man with a hidden assassin past would say.”
Jack looked at you for a long second. Then he asked, “Do you want me to show you?”
You blinked. “Show me what?”
Jack nodded toward the basement door. “A few basics.”
Your stomach dipped. “Self-defense?”
Jack’s voice stayed dry. “That is what we’re talking about.”
You looked down at yourself. Leggings. Loose shirt. Bare feet. Still a little shaky in your own skin. You admitted, “I wanted reassurance.”
Jack’s expression softened. “I’m giving you both.”
That should not have worked on you. It did. You glanced toward the basement door. “You have a self-defense dungeon, don’t you?”
Jack stared at you. You stared back. Jack said, “It’s a workout space.”
You nodded slowly. “That is exactly what someone with a self-defense dungeon would call it.”
Jack pushed off the counter. “Are you coming?”
You should have said something clever. You should have made another joke. Instead, you looked at him standing there, barefoot and broad-shouldered, one hand near the basement door, his hair a little mussed from the way he had run his fingers through it after dinner. Your body remembered the parking garage. The cold concrete. The fluorescent lights. The echo of footsteps that might have meant nothing but had still made your pulse climb into your throat.
Then your body registered Jack. Warm kitchen. Clean cotton. Bare feet. Quiet house. A man who had listened without making you feel ridiculous. You walked toward him.
Jack watched your face as you passed. “What?”
You glanced up. “What?”
Jack’s mouth softened. “I’m proud of you.”
The words landed harder than you expected. Your throat closed. Jack did not touch you. He just stood there, letting you absorb it. You looked down at the stairs. “For almost stabbing myself with my own keys?”
Jack’s voice stayed gentle. “For paying attention.” You swallowed. Jack continued, “For leaving.” Your fingers tightened around the railing. Jack’s eyes held yours. “For coming here.”
You forced a shaky breath through your nose. Then you glanced past him into the basement, “Still sounds like a dungeon.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “It’s a workout space.”
You stepped down one stair. “Sure, Dr. Basement.”
Jack followed you down. “Don’t call me that.”
The laugh that left you came easier than the last one. The basement was warmer than you expected. Quiet, too. One corner had been turned into a practical home gym: black mats fitted together across the floor, a punching bag near the wall, a small rack of weights, and resistance bands looped neatly from a hook. Nothing flashy. Nothing excessive. Just useful. Very Jack.
You stepped onto the edge of the mat. “You have a punching bag.”
Jack came to stand beside you. “Yes.”
You pointed at the mat beneath your bare feet. “And a whole fighting area.”
Jack looked down at the mat. “It’s not a fighting area.”
You widened your eyes. “Oh, my mistake. Your peaceful rectangle.”
Jack’s mouth curved despite himself. “You done?”
You rocked back on your heels. “Probably not.”
Jack stepped onto the mat and faced you. “Come here.”
Your stomach flipped. You covered it with attitude and lifted your chin. “Yes, sensei.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. You smiled sweetly. Jack pointed at the mat in front of him. “Okay, smart ass. Get on the mat.”
That should not have worked on you. It did. You stepped fully onto the mat, bare feet pressing into the textured surface.
Jack shifted into something steadier, his shoulders relaxing even as his attention sharpened. “First rule.”
You folded your arms. “Already?”
Jack nodded. “This isn’t about winning a fight.”
You let your arms drop a little. “Comforting.”
Jack shrugged, “It should be.” You looked at him. Jack continued, “It’s about getting out.”
Your smile faded. Jack saw it happen. His tone softened without losing its firmness. “You are not trying to prove anything. You are not trying to be brave.” You looked down at the mat. Jack’s eyes stayed on your face. “You are trying to create enough space to leave.”
You nodded once. “Okay.”
Jack held out his hand. “Give me your wrist.”
You glanced at his hand. He waited. The pause mattered. You put your wrist in his palm. Jack’s fingers closed around you. Not tight. Not rough. But solid enough that your body understood the shape of it. Your breath caught before you could stop it.
Jack’s eyes flicked to your face. “Still okay?” You nodded. His grip loosened immediately, “Words.”
Your face warmed. “Yes. I’m okay.”
Jack’s fingers settled around your wrist again. “Good.” The word should not have moved through you the way it did. Jack’s thumb shifted against the inside of your wrist. “Don’t pull back.”
You looked down at his hand. “I wasn’t.”
Jack’s gaze stayed on your shoulder. “You were thinking about it.”
You frowned. “That’s not the same thing.”
“It is when your shoulder moves,” Jack replied.
You looked at your shoulder, offended. “Traitor.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “Turn toward my thumb.”
You tried. Jack held on. Your wrist stayed trapped in his hand. Jack shook his head once. “That was pulling back.”
You looked up at him. “Was it?”
Jack’s answer was immediate. “Yes.”
You huffed. “That is very supportive.”
Jack adjusted your wrist. “It’s accurate.”
You narrowed your eyes. “I liked you better when you were feeding me.”
Jack’s other hand came up to guide your fingers. “You’ll survive.”
You watched his hand wrap carefully around yours. “Cold.”
Jack ignored that, but his mouth betrayed him a little. “Here. The weak point of the grip is where the thumb and fingers meet.”
His palm was warm. His thumb was rough. His hand looked impossibly large around your wrist.
Jack angled your arm slowly. “Don’t fight the strongest part of my hand. Turn toward the opening.”
You stared for one second too long. Jack noticed. Jack lifted his eyes to yours. “Focus.”
You snapped your gaze up. “I am.”
Jack’s expression did not change. “No. You’re thinking about my hand.”
Heat flooded your face. Jack did not smile. That was worse. He loosened his grip and reset your wrist. “Try again.”
You exhaled through your nose. “You’re very bossy for a man who lured me into a basement.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Workout space.”
You looked pointedly at the mats under your feet. “Basement.”
Jack closed his fingers around your wrist again. “Don’t pull back.”
You glanced down at his hand. “I’m not.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to your shoulder. “You are.”
You looked at your shoulder like it had betrayed you. “I’m going to start taking this personally.”
Jack adjusted your wrist with careful fingers. “Good. Maybe you’ll remember it.”
You lifted your eyes to his. “Terrible motivational speaker.”
Jack’s thumb shifted once against your skin. “You’re still here.”
That should not have warmed you. It did. Jack reset his grip, his fingers closing around your wrist again with the same maddening care. “Toward my thumb.”
You tried to twist your wrist free. Jack held on. You frowned. “That was toward your thumb.”
Jack replied, “That was away from my hand.”
You frowned, “Your hand is attached to your thumb.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “Anatomically, yes.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Do not flirt with me using anatomy right now.”
Jack’s expression stayed calm. “Then listen.”
You swallowed. Jack stepped closer by half an inch, not enough to crowd you, just enough for the space between you to become something you could feel. Jack said, “The weak point is here.”
His other hand came up, and one finger tapped the narrow gap where his thumb met his fingers. Jack continued, “Turn through that opening. Step with it. With your body, not just your arm.”
You blinked. “That is both very helpful and not helpful at all.”
Jack looked unimpressed. “Try it.”
You drew a breath. This time, you turned your wrist toward the gap in his grip and stepped with the movement instead of yanking backward. Your arm slipped free more easily than you expected. The sudden lack of resistance made you stumble a half step, and your eyes dropped to your own hand. You were out, just like that. For a second, the basement went very still. You looked up at him. “I did it?”
Jack’s face softened by a degree. “You did it.”
You looked down at your hand again. “Did you let me?”
Jack’s answer came quiet and immediate. “No.” Your eyes found his. Jack held your gaze. “I taught you.”
That landed somewhere tender. Not soft, exactly. Tender. A warmth moved behind your ribs because he said it like the distinction mattered. Like he would not take the win from you. Like he had no interest in making himself look stronger by making you feel small. You forced a breath out. “That was almost encouraging.”
Jack reset his stance. “Don’t get attached.”
You huffed. “There he is.”
Jack held out his hand. “Again.”
You stared at him. “Again?”
Jack nodded. “Again.”
You gave him your wrist because, apparently, that was your life now. He showed you three more times. The first time, you pulled back and swore at your shoulder. The second time, Jack told you to use your whole body, and you muttered something about filing a complaint with management. The third time, your wrist slipped free cleanly. Jack nodded once. “Good.”
You looked down at your hand, pleased despite yourself. “That one was good.”
Jack’s mouth softened. “It was.”
The praise was not flirtatious that time. That made it hit differently. You looked up at him. Jack’s eyes were steady on yours, warm and serious beneath everything else. “You’re getting it.”
Something in your chest loosened. You nodded, quieter now. “Yeah.”
Jack let that moment breathe. Then his gaze moved over you, assessing in a way that should have felt clinical and did not. Jack said, “Now your stance.”
You looked down at your legs. “My stance is standing.”
Jack shook his head. “Barely.”
You gasped. “Rude.”
Jack pointed toward your feet. “Feet apart.”
You obeyed, widening your stance by approximately two inches. Jack stared at the distance between your feet. You stared at him. Jack said, “Wider.”
You moved one foot out another inch. “Demanding.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Still too narrow.”
You gave him a look. “How much space do you think I need?”
Jack’s gaze lifted to yours. “Enough that someone can’t knock you over because you’re being stubborn.”
You paused. Then you stepped wider. Jack nodded once. “Better.”
You looked down. “I feel ridiculous.”
Jack stepped closer. “You look stable.”
You glanced up at him. “That is not the same as cool.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “You want cool or useful?”
You sighed. “I hate when the options are obvious.”
Jack touched two fingers lightly to your elbow. “Hands up.”
You lifted your fists near your chest. Jack’s brows rose. You frowned. “What?”
Jack tapped your knuckles. “Not fists.”
You lowered them slightly. “You just told me hands up.”
Jack took one of your hands and gently opened your fingers. “Open hands.”
You looked at your own palm. “Jazz hands?”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “No.”
You spread your fingers wider. “Defensive jazz hands.”
Jack looked at you for one long second. You smiled sweetly. Jack’s voice went dry. “You done?”
You tilted your hand back and forth. “Probably not.”
Jack’s thumb pressed lightly against your palm, closing your fingers into a looser shape. “Open hands give you options. Push. Grab. Block. Create space.”
You tried very hard to listen. You did. Mostly. But Jack was close again, and his white T-shirt pulled across his shoulders when he moved. The fabric was soft from wear, thin enough at the collar to show the warm line of his throat. His gray sweats sat low on his hips, plain and comfortable and unfair in a way that made you angry at clothing as a concept. He smelled like dish soap, clean laundry, and something warmer underneath. Like his house. Like him. Jack tapped your wrist. “Higher.”
You snapped your eyes back to his face. “What?”
Jack’s eyes narrowed faintly. “Hands.”
You lifted them higher. “Right.”
Jack studied you. “You were not thinking about your hands.”
You looked offended. “You don’t know that.”
Jack’s gaze dropped pointedly to your hands, which had already started to drift down again. You lifted them fast. “Fine.”
Jack stepped to your side. “Knees soft.”
You bent your knees dramatically. Jack blinked. You held the position. Jack said, “Not a squat.”
You straightened slightly. “You said soft.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “I did.”
You gestured down at yourself. “These are soft knees.”
Jack’s hand came to your hip. You forgot what a knee was. The touch was not sexual. That almost made it worse. His palm settled at the side of your hip, warm through the soft fabric of your leggings, firm enough to guide but not enough to hold. His other hand hovered near your shoulder, and the space between his body and yours narrowed until you could feel the heat of him at your side. You went still. Immediately, Jack’s hand loosened. “Still okay?”
You swallowed. “Yes. I’m okay.”
Jack’s hand returned to your hip, slower this time. “Good.”
The word moved through you low and warm. You hated that he probably knew. Jack adjusted your weight with a small pressure on your hip. “Don’t lock your knees.”
You stared straight ahead. “I’m not.”
Jack’s hand stayed steady. “You are.”
You exhaled. “My body is filing a complaint.”
Jack’s mouth curved near your shoulder. “Denied.”
You closed your eyes for half a second. Mistake. With your eyes closed, everything else got louder. The soft hum of the heater. The faint drag of Jack’s bare foot shifting on the mat. The warm shape of his hand at your hip. The quiet brush of cotton as his shirt moved with his breath. The space of him beside you, close enough to feel, not close enough to lean into without making it obvious. You opened your eyes. Jack’s gaze was already on your face. You tried to recover. “You’re very hands-on.”
Jack’s hand slid from your hip to your waist, adjusting your angle by a fraction. “You asked me to show you.”
You looked at him. “I asked for reassurance.”
Jack’s thumb shifted once at your waist. “I’m giving you both.”
The callback landed hard. Your breath caught before you could stop it. Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth, only for a second. Then he looked back at your stance like he had not just wrecked the air between you. He was infuriating. Jack stepped behind you. “Keep your feet where they are.”
Your spine straightened. You forced your voice into something light. “What part of the lesson is this?”
Jack touched your right elbow, guiding it down a fraction. “The part where you learn not to fall over.”
You glanced back. “Sexy.”
Jack’s eyes flicked to yours. “Useful.”
You faced forward before your face could get any hotter. His heat settled behind you. Not touching at first. Just there. It changed the room anyway. Jack’s fingers touched your left shoulder. “Relax this.” You tried. Jack’s fingers stayed there. “Actually relax it.”
You made an offended sound. “That was relaxed.”
Jack’s thumb pressed gently into the tense muscle near your shoulder blade. “That was your pretending.”
Your mouth went dry. The pressure was careful, almost absent, but your body reacted as if he had dragged his hand down your spine. Jack felt the shift. You knew he did because his fingers stilled. For a second, neither of you moved. Then Jack’s voice came lower. “Breathe.”
You pulled air in. It sounded embarrassingly uneven.
Jack’s hand left your shoulder and came to your elbow. “Hands up.”
You lifted your hands again. Jack’s palm passed near your waist without touching this time. “If someone moves into your space, don’t freeze. Hands open. Weight centered. Knees soft.”
You nodded. “Okay.”
Jack stepped closer behind you. “Don’t pull against me.”
The words were practical. His voice was not. Your breath caught. Jack went still. For one terrible second, neither of you moved. Then his hand settled at your waist again, warm and certain through your shirt. Jack’s mouth came close to your ear. “There it is.”
Your eyes closed. “Jack.”
His thumb moved once at your side. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”
You swallowed. “What is?”
Jack’s voice dropped. “You like being told what to do when it’s me.”
You stared straight ahead at the punching bag in the corner. “That is a very arrogant diagnosis.”
Jack’s thumb moved once at your waist. “It’s an accurate one.”
You swallowed. “You’re enjoying this.”
Jack’s mouth came close enough to your ear that his breath warmed your skin. “A little.”
Your eyes closed before you could stop them. His hand eased at your waist, giving you room even as his voice stayed low. Jack asked, “Still okay?”
You nodded, then caught yourself. “Yes. I’m okay.”
Jack’s palm settled again. “Good.”
The word went through you with embarrassing precision. You tried to breathe like a normal person. “You say that like you know what it does.”
Jack’s mouth curved near your ear. “I do.”
Your stomach dropped. Jack stepped away before you could answer. The sudden absence of him was almost worse than the closeness. You turned your head enough to glare at him. “That was rude.”
Jack came around to stand in front of you, expression calm except for the small, pleased curve at his mouth. “That was restraint.”
You stared at him. “I hate when you’re technically right.”
Jack’s gaze moved over you, taking in the stance, the hands, the way you were breathing a little too hard for a basic lesson in his basement workout space. Then his face softened. Jack said, “You have the wrist.”
You lifted your brows. “Do I get a certificate?”
Jack’s mouth curved. “No.”
You dropped your hands. “Terrible program.”
Jack pointed once toward the mat. “Turn around.”
Your smile faltered. Only slightly. Jack saw it immediately. His face shifted, the heat banking into something steadier. Jack said, “We can stop here.”
You shook your head. “No.”
Jack did not move. “We can.”
You held his gaze. “I know.”
He waited. You took a breath. “I don’t want to stop.”
Jack studied your face for another second, then nodded once. “Okay.”
You turned around. The room looked different, facing away from him. The punching bag hung still in the corner. The weights sat neatly on the rack. The stairs led back up to the kitchen, where the sink probably still smelled like garlic and dish soap, where your keys were sitting on the counter, where the world had felt a little too big until Jack made it smaller. Behind you, his footsteps shifted on the mat. Bare feet. Quiet room. Warm air. Your pulse climbed anyway.
Jack stopped behind you, close enough that you could feel his heat before he touched you. Jack’s voice came low and even. “Still okay?”
You nodded, then answered before he could correct you. “Yes. I’m okay.”
Jack’s hand touched your waist first, a quiet point of contact before anything else. “I’m going to put my arm around you.” Your fingers flexed once at your sides. Jack added, “Not tight.”
You swallowed. “Okay.”
Jack’s voice stayed steady. “If you want me to stop, say stop.”
You nodded. “I will.”
Jack’s hand settled more firmly at your waist. “And I will.”
Your throat tightened. You believed him. That was the dangerous part. Jack stepped in behind you. His arm came around your middle, forearm settling across your stomach with careful, controlled pressure. His chest brushed your back through the thin fabric of both your shirts. Not fully pressed against you. Not trapping you. Not taking anything. Just holding. Your eyes fluttered.
Jack’s mouth came near your ear. “Drop your weight.”
For a second, your body did not understand him. Or maybe it did, and that was the problem. His forearm pressed carefully across your stomach, hand resting at your side. The cotton of his shirt brushed the back of yours. His chest was close enough that each breath he took moved faintly against your spine. His bare foot was just behind yours on the mat, close but not touching, the heat of his body surrounding you in a way that made the practical basement blur at the edges.
You swallowed. “Drop my weight.”
Jack’s voice stayed low. “Bend your knees.”
You bent forward. Jack’s arm tightened immediately, stopping you before you could fold at the waist. Jack corrected you, his mouth still near your ear. “Not forward.”
Your breath caught. “Where, then?”
Jack’s hand settled more firmly at your waist. “Down.”
The word moved through you like a command your body wanted to obey for every wrong reason. Your eyes closed. Jack felt it. His thumb moved once at your side. “There.”
Your stomach pulled tight. You tried to make your voice work. “This is a self-defense lesson.”
Jack’s arm stayed steady around you. “It is.”
You stared at the punching bag across the room. “Then maybe stop saying things like that.”
Jack’s thumb dragged once over your waist through your shirt. “Like what?”
You hated him. You wanted to lean back against him so badly your knees almost gave you an excuse. You kept your hands loose at your sides. “You know.”
Jack’s breath warmed the side of your neck. “I do.”
That was worse. That was much worse. For a second, neither of you moved. The heater hummed. The mat pressed cool and textured beneath your feet. Somewhere upstairs, the house settled with a quiet creak that made the basement feel even more private. Jack’s arm stayed across your stomach, warm and solid, and the longer he held you there, the more impossible it became not to notice exactly how he was holding back. His forearm was firm against you. His fingers were open at your side. His chest was barely touching your back.
Barely. The restraint was what ruined you. Jack’s voice dropped. “Try again.”
You blinked. “Right now?”
Jack’s mouth curved near your ear. “Yes.”
You tried to gather whatever dignity you had left. “Demanding.”
Jack’s hand shifted at your waist. “Accurate.”
You exhaled and softened your knees this time, letting your weight sink downward rather than forward. Jack’s arm followed the motion, not pulling, not forcing, just staying with you as your center of gravity lowered. His chest brushed your back more fully for one second. The contact stole the air out of both of you. You heard it. The slight change in his breathing. Barely there. But there. Your lips parted. Jack went still behind you. You both knew. Your mouth curved before you could stop it. “You okay?”
Jack’s hand tightened once at your waist. “Focus.”
You smiled at the wall. “That was not an answer.”
Jack’s voice came rougher this time. “It was the one you’re getting.”
Your smile widened. There he was. Not completely. Not enough. But there. The crack beneath all that calm. Jack’s arm loosened. “Now step.”
You blinked. “Step?”
Jack’s hand moved to your hip, guiding your attention downward. “Outside my foot.”
You looked down. His foot was close to yours on the mat. Bare, steady, placed just behind and slightly outside your own. His ankle brushed yours when you shifted, and the small contact went through you with humiliating force. Jack felt that too. His fingers tightened once at your hip. You heard him exhale. You stepped outside his foot. Jack’s voice stayed controlled by effort now. “Good.”
The praise hit harder because you could hear what it cost him. You breathed in. “Then what?”
Jack’s arm came around you again, demonstrating the hold from behind. “Turn into me.”
You went still. The phrase landed worse than all the others. Not worse. Better. Your body understood it before your brain had a chance to pretend. Turn into me. Jack knew exactly when it hit. His hand stilled at your hip. The basement went quiet. Then Jack’s voice came lower, almost against your skin. “That one got you.”
Your face burned. “You’re impossible.”
Jack’s thumb moved slowly over your hip. “You’re transparent.”
You tried to look over your shoulder. “I am not.”
Jack’s arm held you in place, not tight, just enough. “Forward.”
Your pulse kicked. You faced forward. Jack’s voice softened into something more dangerous than teasing. “Listen.” You went quiet. His hand moved from your hip to your waist. “Step outside my foot.”
You nodded. “I did.”
Jack’s forearm settled against your stomach. “Drop your weight.” You bent your knees. Jack moved with you. “Now turn into me.” Your body hesitated. Jack felt it. Jack’s voice stayed steady. “Into me. Not away.”
You swallowed. “That is a phrasing problem.”
Jack’s mouth came close to your ear. “No.” His hand tightened once at your waist. Jack continued, “That one’s just true.”
Your breath caught. For one second, you forgot the move entirely. Jack waited. He did not rush you. He did not laugh. He only held you there, warm and steady behind you, letting the charged silence stretch until it stopped feeling like embarrassment and started feeling like permission to want what you wanted. Jack’s arm loosened a fraction. “Do it.”
You stepped outside his foot. You dropped your weight. Then you turned into him. The movement brought you around faster than you expected. Your foot slid over the mat. His arm released as you rotated, and suddenly you were facing him, close enough that your hand landed on his chest for balance. Jack’s hand came to your waist at the same time. Steadying you. Catching you. Holding you there. Your palm flattened against his T-shirt. His heart was beating hard. Harder than it should have been. You looked up at him. Jack looked down at you.
Neither of you moved.
The basement felt too quiet around you. The heater hummed. The punching bag hung still in the corner. Your hand stayed on his chest, and beneath your palm, Jack’s heartbeat kept giving him away.
You whispered, “You’re not as calm as you look.”
Jack’s jaw shifted. His hand flexed at your waist. “No.”
The honesty went through you like heat. Your fingers curled slightly in his shirt. Jack’s gaze dropped to the movement. Then to your mouth. Then back to your eyes. For one dangerous second, you thought he might kiss you. For one dangerous second, you wanted him to.
Jack drew a slow breath and stepped back. Your hand fell from his chest. The loss of contact felt obscene. Jack’s voice came rougher. “One more.”
You blinked. “Seriously?”
Jack’s eyes held yours. “Yes.”
You stared at him. “You’re evil.”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “You get better every time.”
That did something to you. Not just the praise. The certainty. The way he said it, like your body learning to get free, mattered. Like he was affected and still committed to making sure you knew how to leave before he ever asked you to stay, you swallowed. “Fine.”
Jack nodded once. “Turn around.”
You turned before he could see what his voice had done to your face. Or maybe he already had. Probably. Jack stepped in behind you. His arm came around your middle. His chest brushed your back. His breath touched the side of your neck. Everything in you went still and listened.
Jack’s voice came low. “Ready?”
You swallowed. “Yes.”
Jack’s hand settled at your waist. “Drop your weight.”
You bent your knees. Jack moved with you. “Step.” You stepped outside his foot. Jack’s arm loosened. “Turn into me.”
You turned. Maybe your foot caught the edge of the mat. Maybe you moved too fast. Maybe both of you were too aware of the other, and the room had been tightening around this moment for too long. Whatever it was, your balance shifted wrong. You felt yourself tip. Jack moved instantly. His arm came around your waist, not to restrain you this time, but to control the fall. His other hand protected the back of your shoulder as the two of you went down to the mat in a controlled, breathless tangle.
You hit the mat on your back, but not hard.
Jack took most of the weight before you could, one hand braced beside your head, the other still firm at your waist. His body covered yours without fully settling, knees planted on either side of your hips, chest hovering close enough that every breath had to move around him.
For one second, neither of you breathed. Then your eyes opened. Jack was above you. His hair was mussed from the fall. His jaw was tight. His hand stayed at your waist, fingers spread warm and careful over your side, and the arm beside your head flexed with the effort of keeping his weight off you.
You stared up at him. “I feel like this means I failed the lesson.”
Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth before he could stop them. Then he looked back at your eyes. Jack said, “Depends on the lesson.”
Heat went through you so fast it almost embarrassed you. You tried to find your attitude and came up short. “That is not self-defense.”
Jack’s gaze stayed on yours. “No.”
The honesty made the air change. Your breathing came fast beneath him. The mat was cool against your back. His knee was beside your hip. His hand was at your waist. His body was above yours, close enough to feel, not close enough to trap. He was holding himself back. You could see it in his shoulders. Feel it in the careful distance he kept between his chest and yours.
Jack’s voice came low. “This is where I need your words.”
Your throat tightened. His thumb moved once at your side. Jack held your gaze. “Because you’re not trying to get out.”
The room went silent around you. Jack continued, quieter, “And before this goes any further, I need to know that’s because you want to stay.”
Your breath shook. You nodded once. “I want to stay.”
Jack did not move. His eyes stayed on yours, dark and steady, while his hand remained careful at your waist. “Tell me what you want.”
Your mouth went dry. He was close enough that you could feel the warmth of him with every breath. Close enough that his body covered yours without resting fully against you. Close enough that the space between you felt deliberate now. Cruel, almost. Like, restraint had become another kind of touch. You looked at his mouth. Then back at his eyes.
You whispered, “Kiss me.”
Jack’s control broke quietly. Not all at once. Not violently. Just enough for you to see it happen, his jaw shifted. His hand flexed at your waist. His eyes dropped to your mouth, and for one breathless second, he still did not move.
Then Jack kissed you.
His mouth came down on yours, firm and warm and devastatingly sure, one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding from your waist to the small of your back as if he had been waiting for permission to touch you there. The first press of his lips stole the air out of your lungs. The second took the rest of your thoughts with it.
You made a sound against his mouth. Jack heard it. His hand tightened at your back, pulling you closer beneath him, and the careful distance he had been keeping disappeared by inches. His chest lowered against yours. His weight settled just enough for you to feel him, not enough to trap you, and that difference made heat rush through you so fast your fingers curled helplessly against the mat.
Jack kissed you like he had been behaving for hours. Like the entire lesson had been a line he refused to cross until you invited him over it. His mouth opened over yours, slow and deep, and you forgot the basement, the mat, the punching bag in the corner.
There was only Jack above you, Jack’s hand at your back, Jack’s breath rough against your lips when he pulled away for half a second only to kiss you again harder. Your hands found his shirt. You grabbed at him without meaning to, fisting the soft cotton near his ribs, and Jack made a low sound against your mouth that went straight through you.
He broke the kiss just enough to breathe. “Still okay?”
Your eyes opened. His face was close, his mouth wet from yours, his breathing less controlled than before. You swallowed. “Yes. I’m okay.”
Jack searched your face. “You’re sure?”
You nodded. “I’m sure.”
His gaze held yours for one more second. Then his mouth curved, faint and dangerous. Jack said, “Good.”
The word barely had time to land before he kissed you again. This time, the kiss was deeper. Less patient. His hand slid beneath your back, pulling you up into him while his other arm stayed braced beside your head, holding most of his weight off you. Even now. Even like this. Careful.
You felt it in the way he kissed you, like he wanted to ruin you, and held himself like he was still afraid of asking too much. You felt it in the restraint of his hand at your back, in the space he kept between his hips and yours, in the way his mouth went rough while the rest of him stayed controlled. It made you ache. It made you impatient.
You broke the kiss with a shaky breath. “Jack.”
His mouth hovered over yours. “Yeah?”
Your fingers tightened in his shirt. “I don’t want you to be careful with me.”
Jack went still. Completely still. His eyes lifted to yours, and the heat in them sharpened into something serious. Jack said, “Careful is not optional.”
Your breath caught.
Jack’s hand slid to your waist, firm and grounding. “Not with you.”
The words landed hard. Your chest rose against his. You shook your head. “That’s not what I mean.”
Jack did not move. “Then tell me what you mean.”
Your face burned. The words were there, hot and heavy in your throat, but saying them while he was above you, while his body covered yours and his mouth was still close enough to touch, felt more exposing than kissing him had. Jack waited. You looked at his mouth, then back at his eyes.
You whispered, “I want you to stop holding back.”
Jack’s jaw tightened. His hand flexed once at your waist. You felt the words hit him. You felt what it cost him not to move. Jack’s voice came lower. “How?”
Your stomach dipped. “Jack.”
His thumb moved once at your side. “Use your words.”
Your breath shook. You stared up at him, pinned beneath the weight he was still mostly keeping off you, and understood exactly what he was asking for. Not because he did not know. Because he wanted you to hear yourself choose it. You swallowed. Then you said, “I want you to take me how you want me.”
Jack’s control slipped, just for a second. His eyes closed, and the breath he let out sounded like it had been dragged out of him. When he opened his eyes again, there was no mistaking what you had done to him. His voice was rough. “You need to be careful saying things like that to me.”
Your pulse jumped. “I thought careful wasn’t optional.”
Jack’s mouth curved, but it was not soft now. “Smart ass.”
His hand slid from your waist to your hip, firmer than before. You arched into the touch before you could stop yourself. His eyes darkened. You whispered, “I mean it.”
Jack held your gaze. “Say it again.”
Your throat went dry. His hand tightened at your hip, not enough to hurt, just enough to make every thought in your head go quiet.
“Tell me again,” Jack murmured.
You breathed, “I want you to take me how you want me.”
Jack lowered his mouth to yours, stopping just before the kiss. His voice was low enough to feel. “And if I want you right here?”
Your whole body went hot. You whispered, “Then take me right here.”
For one second, Jack only looked at you. Then the last careful inch of distance between your bodies disappeared. His body settled over yours, solid and warm, pinning you to the mat with enough weight to make your breath break and not enough to hurt. Never careless. But no longer holding himself away from you either.
You made a sound into his mouth, and Jack swallowed it as if it belonged to him. His hand slid beneath your back, pulling you up into the kiss while his other arm stayed braced beside your head. His chest pressed yours down. His hips settled between your thighs, and the first real press of his hard length against you made both of you go still for half a breath.
Jack felt it. So did you. The heat of him. The weight of him. The hard line of him fitting against you through layers of fabric. Your breath caught against his mouth. Jack lifted his head just enough to look at you. His eyes were dark, focused, taking in your face like he was cataloging every reaction. Then he moved his hips again. Slow. Controlled.
The drag of him caught exactly where you needed it, and the gasp that left you was so sharp it almost sounded surprised. Jack went still above you. His eyes flicked over your face. Your fingers tightened in his shirt. The corner of his mouth moved. Barely.
Jack’s voice dropped. “Oh.”
Your face went hot. “Don’t.”
His hand tightened at your waist. “You liked that.”
You swallowed. “Jack.”
Your breathing came fast beneath him. Jack’s hips pressed forward again, deliberate this time, giving you the same slow, firm pressure. Your back arched before you could stop it.
His mouth brushed your ear. “There.”
Your eyes fluttered shut.
Jack’s voice stayed low, rougher now. “That’s what I want.”
The words sank into you. You opened your eyes. “What?”
Jack moved again, grinding against you with enough pressure to make your hands grab at his back. “This.”
Your breath broke. His mouth dragged along your throat. “I want to feel you react to me before I take anything off.”
Heat rushed through you so fast your legs tightened around his hips. Jack exhaled hard against your neck. He liked that. You felt how much he liked that. His hips moved again, slower, filthier, pinning you beneath the weight of him while he watched what it did to you.
Jack said, “I want to know what gets you quiet.”
Another roll of his hips. You gasped. His mouth curved against your skin. “What gets you loud.”
He did it again, and your fingers dug into his shoulders. Jack’s hand slid down to your thigh, gripping firmly as he opened you a little wider beneath him. “I want to know how you look when you stop trying to pretend you’re not desperate for me.”
Your mouth fell open. No sound came out. Jack lifted his head, eyes dark and devastatingly pleased. He murmured, “There she is.”
You hated how much that did to you. You hated that he knew. You hated that your body answered him before you could find anything clever to say. Your hips shifted up against his. Jack’s face changed. The pleased edge sharpened into something hotter. Hungrier.
His hand dragged back to your waist, holding you still as he rolled against you again, harder this time. You moaned. Jack kissed the sound out of your mouth, deep and rough and possessive enough to make your head spin. He kissed you like he had decided he liked taking you apart this way. Like he had every intention of doing it slowly. Like the wanting was not something he had to rush past to get to the rest.
When he pulled back, his breathing was uneven. His eyes stayed on yours. Jack said, “You asked me to take you how I want.”
You nodded, dazed. His thumb moved along your waist. “This is how I want you first.”
Your whole body went hot beneath him. Jack’s mouth lowered to yours, but he did not kiss you yet. He let you feel him pressing against you, let you feel how hard he was, let you feel exactly how much restraint was still threaded through the way he held you down. His voice was rough when he continued. “I want you worked up before I even get my mouth on you.”
Your breath caught. Jack’s hips moved again, and the friction hit so perfectly your eyes shut. He watched you take it. Then his mouth brushed yours. Jack said, “I want you aching for it.”
You whispered, “I already am.”
His control slipped. Just a little. His grip tightened at your waist, and the next roll of his hips was harder, less polished, enough to make both of you breathe out at the same time. Jack closed his eyes for half a second. When he opened them, they were darker.
His voice came low. “Good.”
Then he kissed you again, moving against you until every thought in your head narrowed down to the weight of him, the pressure, the rhythm, the rough sound of his breathing against your mouth. It was too much. It was not enough. Your hands slid under his shirt onto his bare back, fingers pressing into warm skin and muscle, trying to pull him closer even though there was no closer left to take.
Jack groaned into your mouth when your nails dragged lightly over his shoulder blades, and the sound made your hips lift without permission. The friction caught just right. Your breath broke. His mouth slowed against yours, not stopping, just changing. Paying attention. His hips rolled again, deliberate now, finding the same angle, the same pressure, the same devastating drag of his body against yours through the thin layers still between you.
Your head fell back against the mat. Jack’s mouth followed, kissing along your jaw, your throat, the place beneath your ear that made your whole body go tight. “There,” he murmured against your skin.
You hated that one word. You loved it. His hips moved again, slower this time, forcing you to feel every second of it. The hard line of him pressed exactly where you needed pressure, and your thighs tightened around his hips before you could stop them.
Jack’s breath left him hard. “Fuck,” he said, low against your throat.
The word went straight through you. His hand slid down your side, over your hip, to your thigh. He gripped there and pulled your leg higher around him, opening you more beneath his body, changing the angle until the next roll of his hips made you gasp so sharply your fingers dug into his back. Jack lifted his head. His eyes were dark. Focused. Gone in a way that still felt controlled enough to ruin you.
“That,” he said.
Your chest rose hard beneath him. “What?”
Jack moved again, grinding down slowly and firmly, and watched your mouth fall open. His voice dropped. “That’s what I want.”
You could barely think around the pressure. “Jack.”
His hand tightened on your thigh. Jack kissed the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then dragged his mouth back to your ear. “I want you aching for it. I want you so worked up you stop trying to be clever.”
Your breath shook. He rolled his hips again. You made a sound that was not clever at all. Jack’s mouth curved against your skin. “There she is.”
You would have told him to shut up if you had any air. You did not. Your body had become embarrassingly honest under his. Every slow grind pulled another sound out of you. Every press of his hips made your thighs tighten. Every rough breath he let out against your neck made you feel how much he liked it, how much he wanted you exactly like this. Pinned. Wanting. Undone before he had even touched bare skin.
Jack’s hand slid from your thigh to your waist, holding you still when your hips tried to chase the next roll of his body. You whimpered. His eyes lifted to yours. “That too.”
Your face burned. “Don’t.”
Jack lowered his mouth to yours, stopping just close enough that his lips brushed yours when he spoke. “No.”
The word was quiet. Certain. Hot enough to make your stomach pull tight. He kissed you again, deep and filthy, and moved against you at the same time. Your body jerked under him, overwhelmed by the pressure and his mouth and the way he seemed to know exactly when to give you more and exactly when to make you wait.
You broke away on a shaky breath. “Jack, please.”
He went still. Not away. Not cold. Just still enough that you felt the full weight of his attention. His hand stayed firm on your waist. “Please, what?”
Your eyes opened. His face was close, mouth wet from yours, breathing rough, expression dark with want and patience and something more dangerous underneath both. You swallowed. He did not prompt you. He waited because he knew you could say it. Because you had already told him what you wanted. Because now he trusted you to ask for more.
Your fingers curled against his back. “I want your hands on me.”
Jack’s jaw tightened. His gaze dropped over you, to your mouth, your chest, the place where your shirt had ridden up just enough to show a strip of skin above your leggings.
Then he looked back at your eyes. “Good.”
The word hit low. Then Jack pushed up just enough to strip his shirt over his head and toss it somewhere beyond the mat. You barely had time to look at him before he was over you again, warm skin under your hands this time, muscle shifting beneath your palms as he came back down and kissed you like he had missed your mouth in the three seconds he had been gone.
His hand left your waist and slid under the hem of your shirt. The first touch of his palm against your bare stomach made you suck in a breath. His hand was warm, rougher than you expected, steady as it spread over your skin. He dragged it slowly up your side, over your ribs, thumb brushing beneath the band of your bra, and watched every inch of your reaction like he had been starving for it.
Your back arched. Jack’s mouth parted. “Christ.”
His hips pressed down once more, not as controlled this time. Rougher. A little ruined. You felt what touching you did to him. That made it worse. That made it better. His hand covered the side of your breast through your bra, thumb dragging over the fabric with enough pressure to make your head fall back. Jack lowered his mouth to your throat again. Your fingers dug into his shoulders. Jack kissed down your neck, over your collarbone, to the neckline of your shirt. His hand slipped out from beneath the fabric only long enough to catch the hem.
His voice was rough. “I want this off.”
You lifted your arms before the words were fully out of his mouth. Jack’s eyes flashed. Then he pulled the shirt over your head and tossed it aside. The air hit your skin. For one second, he only looked at you. His gaze moved over your face first, then down, taking in your swollen mouth, your flushed chest, your bra, the way your body was still arching toward him like it had not gotten the message that he had stopped moving.
Jack’s expression went quiet. Not soft. Not gentle. Hungry in a way that had nowhere to hide.
“Fuck,” he said again, under his breath.
Your stomach tightened. Jack saw. His hand spread over your waist. “You like hearing that.”
You did not bother lying. Your breath came shallow. “Yes.”
Something in his face sharpened. Jack lowered his mouth to your chest and kissed the bare skin above your bra, slow and open. His hand slid up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through the fabric, and your back arched before you could stop it. Jack followed the movement with his mouth. He kissed along the top edge of your bra, then over the fabric itself, his mouth closing hot and deliberate over your breast.
Your breath broke.
His hand tightened at your waist, holding you still while his mouth worked you through the thin barrier, tongue dragging damp heat over the fabric, teeth grazing carefully enough to make your whole body jolt. Your fingers twisted in his hair. The reaction that pulled from him was immediate. His breath caught. His hand flexed hard against your waist. His mouth pressed more firmly to you, like he had lost one more piece of the restraint he had been clinging to.
You did it again. Jack groaned. The sound vibrated through your chest and went straight between your thighs. His mouth moved to your other breast, giving it the same slow attention, kissing and licking through the fabric until you were shifting beneath him, hips restless, breath coming out in uneven little sounds you could not swallow down. Jack lifted his head just enough to look at you. His mouth was wet. His eyes were worse.
“I wanted to see how long it took,” he said.
Your chest rose hard against him. “For what?”
Jack’s thumb dragged over your ribcage. “For you to stop pretending you could be quiet.”
Heat rushed through you. Then his hand slid behind your back. He unhooked your bra with one sharp, competent movement, and your breath caught before the fabric even loosened. Jack’s gaze stayed on your face as he drew the straps down your arms. Watching. Trusting the yes you had already given him. When the bra fell away, the room seemed to narrow to the weight of his stare and the heat of his body above yours. You felt exposed for half a second.
Then Jack’s mouth was on your breast.
No fabric. No teasing layer. Just the wet heat of his mouth closing over your nipple while his hand covered the other breast, palm warm and firm, thumb dragging over sensitive skin until your back arched hard off the mat.
“Jack.” His name left you broken.
Jack groaned against you. His hand slid down to your waist and pressed you back to the mat, keeping you exactly where he wanted you while his mouth kept working at your breast. Slow suction. Tongue. Teeth, careful and devastating. His other hand moved over your ribs, your stomach, your hip, learning the places that made your breathing catch. He was not rushing. That was the worst part. He had you pinned beneath him, half naked and shaking, and he was taking his time because he wanted you like this. Desperate before he ever touched you lower.
His mouth left your breast with a wet, filthy sound, and you nearly died from it. Jack looked down at what he had done to you, then back at your face. His voice came out rough. “Look at you.”
Your eyes fluttered. Jack kissed the center of your chest, then the curve of your other breast. “Already this worked up.”
His mouth closed over you again, and this time your hips lifted helplessly against his. Jack caught the movement with his own body, pressing his hips down into yours in a slow, deliberate grind. The friction hit exactly right. You gasped, sharp and helpless. Jack stilled for one beat. Then he did it again. Harder. Your hands flew to his shoulders. Jack lifted his head, eyes dark and locked on yours. “That’s it.”
He rolled his hips again, grinding against you while his mouth hovered over your breast, close enough that his breath moved over wet skin. “You asked me to take you how I want,” he said.
You could barely nod. Jack’s hand slid to your thigh and pulled it higher around his hip. “This is what I want.”
Another slow press of his hips. Another broken sound from you. His jaw tightened like he felt it everywhere. Your nails dug into his shoulders. Jack’s mouth returned to your breast, sucking harder this time as his hips moved against yours. The rhythm was slow and filthy and controlled, each drag of his body catching exactly where you needed it until your thoughts started coming apart at the edges. You tried to say his name. It came out as a moan.
Jack groaned against your skin. “Fuck, there she is.”
Your whole body went hot. His hand tightened on your thigh, keeping you open for the roll of his hips. “I want to watch it happen,” Jack said against your breast. “Every time you forget to be embarrassed. Every time your body tells me what you want before your mouth does.”
You whimpered. Jack lifted his head. His eyes were dark, wrecked, and completely focused on you. “That’s what I want,” he said. “I want you undone by me.”
The words hit so hard your hips shifted up into his again. Jack took it. He pressed you down into the mat and gave you another slow, firm grind, watching your face while the friction dragged another helpless sound out of you. His mouth curved, but his breathing was too rough for smugness.
“I know,” he murmured. “I know, baby.”
His hand slid from your thigh to the waistband of your leggings. This time, when his fingers hooked there, he did not tease for long. He looked up at you, and you knew he saw the answer before you gave it. Still, you gave it anyway. “Yes.”
Jack’s eyes darkened. That was all he needed. He kissed your breast one more time, slower now, almost indulgent, like he wanted to remember the way you shook beneath his mouth. Then he moved lower. His mouth dragged down the center of your chest, over your ribs, across your stomach, slow enough to make you feel every place he chose to stop. He did not kiss you as if he were passing through. He kissed you like every inch of skin mattered.
His hands followed his mouth, palms warm on your waist, your hips, the outside of your thighs. He was still breathing raggedly. Still hard against you every time his body shifted. Still visibly holding himself back from rushing, and the knowledge that he was choosing this pace made you ache worse. Jack’s mouth pressed to the bare skin just above your leggings. Your stomach tightened. He felt it under his lips.
His fingers hooked into the waistband. Jack looked up at you from there, eyes dark beneath the fall of his hair. “I want these off.”
Your answer came immediately. “Yes.”
The word had barely left your mouth before Jack pulled. He dragged your leggings down slowly at first, watching your face as the fabric moved over your hips. Then his patience thinned, and he tugged them the rest of the way off, taking your underwear with them in one deliberate motion that made your breath catch hard in your throat. The air hit you. So did the weight of his attention.
Jack stayed between your thighs, one hand wrapped around your ankle, the other pressed to the mat beside your hip. For a second, he did not touch you. He only looked. Your instinct was to close your legs. Jack caught the movement immediately, his palm sliding to your thigh.
“Don’t,” he said.
Jack’s thumb moved once over your inner thigh, not soothing exactly. Grounding. Reminding. “You said you wanted me to take you how I wanted.” His gaze lifted to yours. “This is how I want you.”
Your breath came shallow. Open. Exposed. Aching. His hand pushed your thigh wider, and your fingers curled against the mat. Jack watched the movement. Then his mouth pressed to the inside of your knee. You nearly laughed from nerves. It died in your throat when he kissed higher.
Slow. Deliberate. Cruel.
His mouth moved up your inner thigh, each kiss warmer than the last, his hand holding you open with easy strength. You could feel his breath against skin that was already too sensitive, already waiting, already desperate from everything he had done to you without ever giving you enough.
“Jack,” you whispered.
His mouth paused against your thigh. “I know.”
You did not think he did. Then his teeth grazed lightly over the soft skin near your hip, and your whole body jolted. Jack’s hand tightened on your thigh. He exhaled against you. “I know, baby.”
The words ruined you. His mouth moved closer. Not close enough. Your hips shifted before you could stop them, chasing him, and Jack pressed you back down with one hand spread low over your stomach. “Stay there,” he said.
Your breath broke. Jack looked up at you, and the sight of him between your thighs nearly took you apart before he touched you. His hair was mussed from your hands. His mouth was swollen from kissing you. His chest was bare, shoulders broad, one hand holding you down while the other kept your thigh open. He looked focused. Hungry. Like this was not something he was doing before getting to what he wanted. Like this was what he wanted.
Jack’s mouth brushed your inner thigh. Your fingers twisted in the mat. His eyes stayed on yours.
“Look at you, all worked up,” he said. “Trying to be patient.”
He kissed closer. Your stomach pulled tight under his hand. Jack’s voice dropped. “Failing.”
You made a sound you could not swallow down. His mouth curved against your skin. Then he finally lowered his mouth to you. The first touch of his tongue made your entire body lift off the mat. Jack held you down through it, palm firm against your stomach, forearm pressing across your hips as his mouth opened against you. Hot. Wet. Certain. Not tentative. Not careful in the way he had been before.
He had heard you. He trusted you. And now he was taking.
Your head fell back, his name breaking out of you before you could make it sound pretty. Jack groaned against you like the sound pleased him. Like it fed him. His tongue dragged through you again, slower this time, and your thighs shook around his shoulders.
“Fuck,” you breathed.
Jack’s hand flexed against your stomach. He liked that. Of course, he liked that. His mouth moved with more pressure, and whatever was left of your composure started to come apart under the steady, devastating focus of him. He learned you fast. Too fast. The soft sound you made when he licked slowly. The way your hips tried to move when he used more pressure. The way your breath caught when his mouth closed around your clit.
Jack found that and stayed there. Your hand flew to his hair. His eyes lifted to yours from between your thighs, dark and wrecked, and the sight of him looking at you while his mouth was on you made you clench around nothing. Jack felt it. His groan vibrated through you.
You gasped, sharp and helpless, fingers tightening in his hair. Jack pulled back just enough to speak against you. “There.” Your hips jerked. His mouth curved. “There she is.”
You could not answer. You could barely breathe. Jack did not seem to need you to. He lowered his mouth again and gave you exactly what had made you shake, one hand still pinning your hips, the other sliding under your thigh to pull you wider for him. He ate you like he had been thinking about it all night. Like he wanted to ruin you with patience. Like every sound you made told him he was right to take his time.
Your body started to go tight. Jack noticed immediately. His hand slid from your stomach to your hip, holding you down when you tried to move away from the intensity.
“No,” he murmured against you. The word was low and absolute. Your breath came out as a whimper. Jack’s mouth worked you slower. Deeper. Meaner. “Don’t run from it now,” he said, voice rough against your skin. “This is what I wanted.”
Your thighs trembled. His eyes lifted again. “I wanted to watch you fall apart.”
You were close enough that the words nearly pushed you over. Jack knew. He slid one hand from your hip, dragging his fingers through you, gathering wetness before pressing one finger inside slowly. Your mouth opened on a silent gasp. Jack groaned like it hurt him.
“Jesus,” he breathed. “You’re so fucking wet.”
The filth of it punched through you. Your hips rolled into his hand. Jack’s mouth returned to your clit as his finger moved inside you, slow and firm, and the combination made your back arch hard off the mat.
“There,” he said against you. “Take it.”
You did. He added a second finger, and your hand pulled hard in his hair. Jack groaned against you. Your whole body tightened. “Jack.” His name came out broken. His fingers curled inside you, and your vision went white at the edges.
He lifted his mouth just enough to look at you. “That’s it.”
You shook your head, overwhelmed. “I can’t—”
Jack’s eyes darkened. “You can.”
His mouth returned to you. His fingers moved again. And that was it. You came with his name in your mouth and his hand holding you open, your body going tight and then shaking apart beneath him. Jack did not stop. He worked you through it, mouth softer now but still there, fingers slowing only when your thighs trembled hard around his shoulders.
By the time he lifted his head, you were wrecked. Breathless. Boneless. Half convinced the mat had melted under you. Jack kissed the inside of your thigh, then your hip, then the bare skin below your stomach. His mouth was wet. His breathing was rough. His eyes looked almost black when he crawled back up your body.
He kissed you before you could recover. Slow. Filthy. Letting you taste yourself on his mouth. You made a weak sound, and Jack smiled against your lips.
“There,” he murmured. “Now you’re listening.”
The words barely reached you through the haze.
You were still trying to remember how to breathe. Still flat on your back on the mat, skin damp, thighs loose around his hips, your whole body trembling in the aftermath of his mouth. Jack was above you again, one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding slowly and firmly over your waist like he was checking what he had done to you by touch.
His mouth was wet. His hair was ruined by your hands. His chest rose and fell harder than before, and his eyes were fixed on you with a focus that made your stomach tighten all over again. You swallowed. “That was listening?”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “That was a start.”
Your breath caught. His hand dragged down your side, over your hip, then back up again like he could not decide where he wanted to touch you most. “You’re still shaking,” Jack said.
You tried to glare at him. It did not land. “Whose fault is that?”
His thumb moved over your hip. “Mine.”
The way he said it made your entire body go warm. Not apologetic. Not even a little. Jack lowered his mouth to your jaw, kissing you there, then lower, the side of your throat, the tender place below your ear. His body shifted over yours, and you felt him then, still hard against your thigh, still held back by the last few layers he had not let himself remove.
You turned your head into him, breath brushing his ear. “Jack.”
His hand tightened at your waist. “Yeah?”
Your fingers trailed down his chest, over his ribs, lower, until they caught at the waistband of his sweats. Jack went still. Completely. You felt the restraint lock through him. Your mouth brushed his jaw. “Take these off.”
His breath left him hard. For one second, he did not move. Then he lifted his head and looked at you, really looked, like he was giving you one last chance to take it back. You did not. Your fingers curled in the waistband and tugged once. Jack’s eyes darkened. “Okay,” he said.
That single word landed low in your stomach. His gaze stayed on yours as he hooked his thumbs into his sweats and pushed them down. His underwear went with them. Your mouth went dry.
He was beautiful in a way that felt unfair. Broad shoulders, bare chest, the dark trail of hair below his navel, the hard line of him revealed between you. You had known, obviously, that he wanted you. You had felt it. You had felt him pressed against you, felt him losing pieces of control against your body. Seeing him was different.
Jack saw your face change. His jaw tightened. “Don’t look at me like that unless you want this to get worse.”
Your pulse jumped. “Worse?”
His hand wrapped around himself once, slow and rough, and your thighs shifted open before you could think better of it. Jack’s eyes dropped. Then lifted. His voice came low. “For you.”
You stopped breathing. He reached for his discarded sweats and pulled a condom from the pocket, because of course Jack had one, because of course he had enough control left to remember that when your entire brain had gone soft around the edges. The thought must have crossed your face, because his mouth curved.
Jack said, “You’re thinking something.”
You swallowed. “I’m thinking you’re very prepared for a man who invited me over for dinner.”
Jack tore the packet open with his teeth, eyes still on yours. “I was prepared to be hopeful.”
A laugh broke out of you, breathless and shaky. Then he rolled the condom on, and the laugh died in your throat. Jack noticed. He always noticed. His hand came to your knee, warm and firm, sliding up the inside of your thigh as he lowered himself over you again.
The weight of him returning made your eyes close. His chest against yours. His hips between your thighs. His mouth was close enough to yours that every breath felt shared. The mat beneath your back. The heat of him everywhere.
Jack brushed his lips over yours. “Look at me.”
Your eyes opened. His face was close, his expression stripped down to something rawer than before. His hand moved between your bodies. You felt him line up with you, and your breath caught so hard your fingers dug into his shoulders. Jack stilled immediately. Not pulling away. Not asking five more questions. Just there. Present. Listening.
You nodded once, holding his gaze. “Yes.”
Jack’s eyes searched yours for one steady second. Then he trusted you. He pushed in slowly. The stretch stole the air from your lungs. Your mouth fell open, but no sound came out at first. Jack’s forehead dropped toward yours, his breath shuddering against your lips as he sank into you inch by inch, careful because he was Jack, because careful was not optional, because even now, even after everything, he would not take your yes like permission to stop paying attention.
But he did not hold back the way he had before. He let you feel him. The weight. The pressure. The way his body shook once when he finally buried himself fully inside you.
“Fuck,” Jack breathed.
Your hands slid up his back, nails pressing into warm skin. He held still above you, giving you time, but his jaw was tight, his arm flexed beside your head, and you could feel what stillness was costing him. You tilted your hips, just barely. Jack’s eyes snapped to yours.
Your voice came out thin. “Please.”
His control cracked. Jack kissed you as he pulled back and thrust into you again, slow but deep enough to make your whole body jolt beneath him. The sound you made disappeared into his mouth. His hand slid under your hip, angling you up, and the next thrust hit so perfectly that your fingers dug into his shoulders.
“There?” Jack asked, voice rough.
You nodded, breath already coming apart. “There.”
He did it again. And again. The rhythm built slowly at first, each stroke deep and controlled, his hips pinning yours to the mat, his mouth moving over your jaw, your throat, back to your mouth when your sounds got too sharp. He was everywhere. Above you. Inside you. Around you. His hand under your hip. His other braced beside your head. His chest dragging against yours with every thrust. His voice low in your ear, telling you exactly what he wanted while he took it.
“This,” Jack said, breath rough against your skin. “This is what I wanted.”
Your eyes fluttered. “Jack.”
He thrust deeper, and your voice broke. “You like knowing that?” His mouth brushed your ear. “That I wanted you like this?”
Your body answered before you did, clenching around him so hard his rhythm faltered. Jack groaned, low and wrecked. “Jesus.”
Heat rushed through you. His hand tightened under your hip. “That’s a yes,” he said.
You could not even be embarrassed. Not with him moving like that. Not with the slow, brutal drag of him inside you, the mat under your back, the sound of his breathing getting rougher every time your body pulled him in. Jack lifted his head, eyes locked on yours. “I wanted you under me.”
Your breath caught. His hips drove into yours again. “Open for me,” he said, voice low and filthy. “Taking me because you asked for it.”
You moaned. Jack’s eyes darkened. His hand slid from your hip to your thigh, pushing it higher, opening you wider beneath him. The new angle made the next thrust hit deeper, sharper, and your head fell back against the mat. Jack watched you take it. Of course he did. That was what he wanted.
“I wanted to see this,” he said. “You falling apart. Trying to be good. Trying to take it.”
Your fingers slid into his hair and pulled. His eyes closed for half a second, his hips stuttering forward hard enough to drag a cry out of you. When he opened his eyes again, the last bit of polish was gone. “Do that again,” Jack said.
You pulled his hair again. He fucked into you harder. The sound that left him was almost a growl, and it went through you like fire.
“There she is,” he said, mouth against yours. “That’s my girl.”
Your whole body clenched. Jack felt it immediately. His hand moved between you, thumb finding your clit with the same devastating focus his mouth had had earlier.
Your back arched. “Oh, my god.”
Jack’s mouth brushed yours. “No hiding now.”
You shook your head, overwhelmed. “I’m not.”
“I know.” His thumb moved in slow, firm circles while his hips kept their rhythm. “I can feel you.”
The words nearly finished you. You tried to turn your face away, but Jack kissed you before you could hide, deep and messy and rough. His body pressed you down into the mat, his thrusts losing some of their control now, harder, hungrier, every one of them making the pressure inside you build until your thoughts went white at the edges.
Jack broke the kiss, breathing hard. “You’re close.”
You nodded because you could not make words happen. His thumb pressed more firmly. His hips slowed just enough to make every thrust count.
“Good,” Jack said, voice wrecked. “That’s what I want.”
Your nails dragged down his back. He cursed against your mouth.
“I want to feel it,” he said. “Come on, baby. Let me feel you.”
That was all it took. You came hard, body locking beneath him, his name breaking out of you as the pleasure tore through you. Jack groaned like it hurt, his hips stuttering as you clenched around him, his hand still working you through it while his mouth found your neck.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “That’s it. That’s it.”
You shook under him, overwhelmed, half sobbing his name, and Jack held you through all of it. Not gentle exactly. Steady. Anchoring. Taking what he had asked for and keeping you there while it happened. Jack did not stop.
He slowed, but he did not stop.
His hips moved in a deep, controlled rhythm that kept the aftershocks rolling through you, each drag of him inside you pulling another broken sound from your throat. You were still coming down, still shaking beneath him, and Jack was watching every second of it like he had not gotten enough. Like watching you fall apart once had only made him want it again.
Your fingers slid weakly over his shoulders. “Jack.”
His mouth brushed yours. “I know.”
You shook your head, overwhelmed. “I don’t think I can…”
Jack’s hand moved over your thigh, slow and firm, holding you open beneath him. “You can.”
Your breath caught. His thumb found your clit again, gentler at first, circling over nerves already too sensitive from his mouth, from his hand, from the way he filled you. Your body jerked.
Jack kissed the corner of your mouth. “There.”
You whimpered. “Oh, my god.”
His hips rolled into yours, slower now, deeper, every thrust timed with the movement of his hand until the pleasure stopped fading and started building again. Want tangled low in your stomach.
You grabbed his back. “Jack, fuck.”
His breath broke. “That’s it,” he said, voice rough. “That’s what I want.”
Your head fell back against the mat. Jack’s mouth moved down your throat. “I want one more.”
Your whole body clenched around him. His hips stuttered once.
“Fuck,” Jack breathed against your skin. “Just like that.”
He kept going. Not rushed. Not frantic. Focused. Ruthless in that devastatingly patient way, like he knew exactly how sensitive you were and exactly how much you could take. His hand stayed between your bodies, his thumb moving in steady circles while his hips drove into you slow and deep enough to make your thoughts scatter.
Your body started to tighten again. You shook your head, but your hips lifted into him. Jack saw both. His voice dropped. “Don’t fight it.”
You gasped. “I’m not.”
His mouth curved against your neck. “You are.”
The words should not have hit the same way they had during the lesson. They did. You clenched around him again, and Jack made a sound so rough it almost finished you by itself.
He lifted his head, eyes locked on yours. “Give it to me.”
Your breath broke.
His thumb pressed a little firmer. His hips kept their rhythm. His body covered yours, hot and heavy and sure, pinning you in place while pleasure rose too fast for you to hold back.
“Jack.”
His jaw tightened. “I know, baby.”
You grabbed at him, nails digging into his back, and came again with a broken sound that barely felt like your own. It tore through you harder this time, sharper, your body locking around him while Jack held you through it, hips slowing but not stopping, his mouth at your jaw, your throat, your cheek, murmuring low, wrecked praise against your skin.
“That’s it. Fuck, that’s it. Good girl.”
You were still shaking when he finally went still. Not because he was done. Because he was trying not to be, you felt it in the tension of his body. The hard flex of his arm beside your head. The way his breath came unevenly against your mouth. The way his hips pressed deep and stayed there like moving again might cost him everything.
You opened your eyes. Jack was looking down at you like you had ruined him. Your voice came out soft and wrecked. “You didn’t…”
His jaw shifted. “No, not yet,” Jack said.
The word was rough. Your stomach flipped. His hand slid over your hip, fingers pressing into skin he had already touched, already held, already used to keep you open for him.
Jack swallowed hard. “Turn over.”
The command went through you like heat. Your breath caught. “What?”
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. Dark. Focused. Barely restrained. His hand tightened at your hip. “Hands and knees.”
Your body reacted before your brain caught up. He felt it. Of course, he felt it. Something in his face changed. “There,” Jack murmured. “You like that too.”
You could barely breathe. Jack pulled out slowly, and the emptiness made you shiver. He helped you turn, one hand steady at your waist, the other sliding along your thigh as you rolled onto your stomach and pushed yourself up on shaking arms. Your knees pressed into the mat. Your hands flattened against the floor. You were still trembling. Jack settled behind you, and the first touch of his hand on your hip made your spine arch.
“Easy,” he said, voice low behind you.
There was nothing easy about it. Not the mat beneath your palms. Not the heat of his body at your back. Not the way his hand moved over your waist like he was looking at you and touching you at the same time. Not the way you could hear his breathing change when he saw you like this.
Jack’s palm slid up your spine, warm and steady. “You’re beautiful,” he said.
The words were rough enough to feel dragged out of him. Your throat tightened. Then his hand moved back to your hip, and his voice dropped. “And this is how I want you now.”
Your fingers curled against the mat. Jack guided your hips back, slow and firm, and pressed into you again from behind. The first thrust stole whatever air you had left. Your head dipped between your shoulders.
Jack’s hand spread over your lower back. “There you go.”
The angle was different. Deeper. Too much and exactly right, his hips meeting yours with a controlled force that made your arms shake. Jack noticed immediately, one hand sliding around your waist to pull you up slightly, keeping you steady while he fucked into you with the last of his restraint burning down behind you.
You could hear it now. Every rough breath. Every low curse. Every time your body took him, he had to fight not to lose himself too quickly.
“Fuck,” Jack said behind you, voice wrecked. “You feel so good like this.”
Your body tightened around him. His hand gripped your hip harder. “Yeah,” he breathed. “I know.”
He moved faster. Not careless. Never careless. But harder now. Less polished. His hips snapped into yours, each thrust pushing you forward over your hands, and Jack held you there, one hand at your hip, the other braced against the mat beside yours when he leaned over you. His chest brushed your back. His mouth came to your shoulder.
“I’ve got you,” he said.
You believed him. You pushed back into him. Jack cursed against your skin. His rhythm broke for one second, then came back rougher.
“That’s it,” he said. “Take it.”
The words broke something open in you. You lowered onto your forearms, overwhelmed, and Jack followed immediately, hand sliding under your stomach to keep you up enough for him. His body covered your back now, hot and heavy, his mouth at your neck, his thrusts shorter and harder and losing control by the second.
“You asked me,” he said, voice torn up against your ear. “You asked me to take you how I wanted.”
Your breath came out in broken pieces. Jack’s hand slid down between your thighs. You jolted. He groaned when he felt how sensitive you still were.
Your body clenched around him.
His head dropped against your shoulder for half a second. “Fuck. Don’t do that unless you want me to come.”
You turned your face into the mat, voice muffled and wrecked. “Maybe I do.”
Jack went still, only for a beat. Then his hand tightened on your hip, and his mouth pressed hard to your shoulder. “Yeah?” he asked.
You nodded, shaking. “Yes.”
The last of his control went. Jack fucked into you harder, deeper, one hand braced beside yours, the other locked on your hip. His breath was harsh at your ear, his body tense over yours, every thrust dragging a sound out of both of you now. You pushed back into him again, and his rhythm faltered.
“Again,” Jack said, rough and low.
You did.
His hand tightened hard at your hip. “Fuck,” he breathed, voice breaking around it. “Just like that.”
Your body clenched around him, and Jack groaned your name like it had been punched out of him. The sound went straight through you. His hips snapped forward once, twice, then lost their rhythm completely.
“That’s it,” Jack said, wrecked against your shoulder. “That’s it, baby. Don’t move. Fuck, don’t move.”
You went still under him, shaking, taking the weight of his body over yours, the heat of his mouth at your skin, the desperate, broken rhythm of him as he chased the last few seconds. Jack buried himself deep and came with your name in his mouth.
Not quiet. Not controlled. Your name, then a curse, then a low, ruined sound against your shoulder as his whole body went tight above yours. His hand gripped your hip, his chest pressed to your back, and his breath stuttered hot and uneven over your skin while he emptied into the condom.
For a few seconds, neither of you moved. The room was nothing but breathing. The heater. The mat beneath your hands. Jack’s body over yours, shaking. Then his grip eased. His mouth pressed to your shoulder, softer now. Once. Twice.
“I’ve got you,” Jack murmured again, voice rough and spent. This time, it sounded different. Less command. More promise. For a few breaths, he stayed there, curved over you, chest against your back, mouth pressed to your shoulder like he was trying to remember how to be in his body again. Then his weight shifted, careful even now, and he eased away slowly. You shivered at the loss.
“I know,” he murmured, one hand smoothing over your hip. “Easy.”
He moved with the same quiet competence he had carried through the whole night, taking care of what he needed to before coming back to you. He did not leave you long enough for the air to cool around you. One second, the mat was too wide and too quiet beneath your knees; the next, Jack was there again, settling beside you and gathering you carefully into his arms. You went without argument.
Your body felt loose and heavy, every muscle humming, your skin too sensitive where his hands had been. Jack rolled you gently onto your side, then pulled you against his chest, one arm tucked beneath your head and the other wrapped around your waist. The basement was quiet around you now in a different way. Not charged. Not waiting. Just warm. The heater hummed. Somewhere above you, the house creaked softly, ordinary and safe.
Jack’s hand moved slowly over your stomach. “You with me?”
You nodded against his chest. “Mostly.”
His mouth brushed your hair. “Mostly?”
You closed your eyes. “Some of me is still on another planet.”
A laugh moved through him, low and tired and pleased. “That so?”
You hummed. “Your fault.”
Jack’s arm tightened around you. “Mine.”
The word was softer this time. Not smug. Not hungry. Just his.
For a minute, neither of you moved. His fingers traced slow, absent lines over your side, then your hip, then the outside of your thigh. Not trying to start anything again. Just touching because he could. Because you were there. Because he had taken you apart, and now he was putting the room back together around you.
Eventually, Jack shifted enough to look at your face. “Anything hurt?”
You blinked up at him, still warm and dazed. “My pride.”
His mouth curved faintly. “That was in rough shape before we started.”
You gave him a tired look. “Rude.”
Jack said, “Accurate.”
You sighed. “I hate when you’re technically right.”
His smile softened. His hand came up, thumb brushing gently along your cheek. “I’m serious.”
You knew. The tenderness in his voice made something in your chest go quiet. You took inventory because he was asking you to, because he would want the real answer. Your knees were a little sore from the mat. Your hips felt pleasantly used. Your throat was dry. Your body was exhausted in a way that felt more like floating than pain.
You shook your head. “Nothing bad.”
Jack watched you for another second. “Good.”
You reached for his hand before he could move away. “I mean it.”
His fingers threaded through yours. “I know.”
And that was its own kind of aftercare, too. Not making you prove your yes again. Not turning your answer into something fragile. Just hearing you and believing you. Your eyes burned suddenly, which was deeply inconvenient after everything else your body had already done on that mat. Jack saw it because, of course, he did.
His expression changed at once. “Hey.”
You shook your head quickly. “I’m okay.”
Jack’s voice stayed quiet. “I know.” Your throat tightened. He opened his arm wider. “Come here anyway.”
That undid you more than it should have. You tucked your face into his neck, and Jack held you. Not loosely. Not like you might break. Firmly. Completely. His hand spread wide over your back, warm and steady, and for the first time all night, your body believed there was nothing left to brace for.
After a while, you murmured, “I cannot believe your self-defense dungeon has seen this much action.”
Jack went still for half a second. Then his chest moved under your cheek. He was laughing. Quietly. The Jack version.
You smiled against his skin. “Don’t pretend you didn’t like that.”
His hand moved slowly up your spine. “I’m not pretending anything right now.”
Your smile softened. The silence settled again, warmer than before. Jack kissed your forehead, then the bridge of your nose, then your mouth, slow and sweet and almost unbearably gentle after the roughness of his hands and voice. When he pulled back, his eyes searched yours one more time.
“You did good,” he said.
Your throat tightened. “At which part?”
Jack’s mouth curved. “All of it.”
You looked down at your tangled hands, at the mat beneath you, at his thumb moving gently over your knuckles. “Even the part where I failed the lesson and ended up pinned under you?”
His eyes warmed. “Especially that part.”
You laughed softly. “Terrible instructor.”
Jack kissed your knuckles. “You learned what mattered.”
Your chest went quiet. You knew what he meant. Not the wrist. Not the stance. Not the leverage. You knew how to get out. You knew he would let you. And you knew exactly why you had stayed.
Jack shifted beside you, one arm still firm around your waist. “Come on.”
You made a faint protesting sound. “Where?”
Jack brushed his mouth over your temple. “Upstairs. Water. Shower. Bed.”
You opened one eye. “In that order?”
His mouth twitched. “Unless you plan to argue with hydration.”
You sighed dramatically, though it came out sleepy. “Fine.”
Jack’s hand slid beneath your thigh, helping you sit up before you could pretend your legs worked normally. The room tilted for one second, and he steadied you at once, palm warm against your back.
“There?” he asked.
You leaned into him. “There.”
His expression softened at the callback. Then he stood, tugged on his sweats, and helped you into his shirt before guiding you toward the stairs with one arm around your waist. You let him. This time, letting him take care of you did not feel like proof that the world was dangerous.
It felt like proof you had somewhere safe to go after it was.
