hi iâm stuck on thinking about rafe encouraging you to slap him during an argument.
rafe has a temper â we all know this. not a day goes by without him getting into an argument with someone and youâre no exception. but what he doesnât tell you is that sometimes he gets under your skin on purpose.
he believes thereâs something so incredibly attractive about the way you get increasingly more fed up with him. so he uses it to his advantage, for fun, of course.
you currently find yourself in that situation. you and rafe have been making snarky remarks towards each other for at least thirty minutes now, and you donât see it ending anytime soon.
it doesnât help that youâre no better than he is. if anything, you can be worse â following him into different rooms, jabbing him with a pointed finger, refusing to let him have the last word. meanwhile, he just watches you with that same irritating smirk, like this is all entertainment to him.
except this time it was different. instead of letting you keep following him, he suddenly turns, and you walk right into him â your nose bumping against his chest.
âyouâre really that angry,â he stares down at you, the corner of his lip curling in amusement.
âare you being serious right now?â you scoff, crossing your arms. âitâs not just this, thatâs the whole point. you keep acting like itâs just this one thing, like iâm blowing it out of proportion, and iâm not. itâs the way you push and push and then stand there like you didnât do anything, like iâm crazy for reacting.â
your hands fly up as you talk, frustration written all over your face. rafe only watches, hands clasped behind his back, like heâs enjoying every second â because he is.
âgod I canât even stand to look at you right now, youâre so,â you mutter, exhaling sharply while burying your face into your hands.
he doesnât argue, just slowly bends at the waist so that heâs eye level with you.
He taps his cheek lightly, his tongue pressing against the inside of it âattemptingâ to hide his growing smile. âcâmon youâll feel better, promise,â
you squint your eyes at him in disgust before turning on your heels and walking away.
âwhat?â he calls after you, a grin in his voice. âiâm just trying to help.â
i love you work so much! thanks for sharing with us<3
i was wondering, will we be seeing more of drew x interviewer!reader? i just love their dynamic and chemistry sm!!
i've been mia for a bit, but yes you will! have like two fics in the drafts for this and like four more that i will be posting over the course of the next few weeks. expect one next week as well as answering asks/publishing request from my inbox! â„ïž
just clark eating you out to the point of tearsâŠ
the air was thick and almost humid. your fingers curled around the bedsheets, gripping the fabric like it was the only thing you could do. it was. your chest was heaving, your nipples taut as your back arched off the bed. you were practically sticking to the sheets, your body covered in a thin layer of sweat.
âc-clarkâŠâ you gasped out, your body shaking and writhing â just the way he liked to see you. your clit was throbbing against his tongue, overstimulated and over worked. but he wasnât done. clark never was. when he got like this, completely lust drunk on you, he could please you for hours. it was like he never got tired.
âcome on, baby, one more. you can do it for me.â he purred, his voice soft and almost innocent like his tongue wasnât deep inside your pussy right now. clark looked up at you with those big blue eyes, his tongue withdrawing from your fluttering cunt to flick at your clit. your eyes rolled back again, a strangled moan ripping from your throat. clark smirks, knowing heâs got you right where he wants you, his tongue flicking just right against the sensitive bundle of nerves.
âthatâs it, baby, just let it happen.â he coaxed as he alternated between sucking your clit and flicking it with this tongue. âgod you taste so good.â he moans against your folds, making your body jerk. you were teetering on the edge of another orgasm, your clit throbbing and aching and making it hard to focus. your fingers threaded through his silky hair, tugging and pulling on the dark, curly strands.
âp-please clark⊠i canâtâŠâ you whimpered, your abdomen aching from the constant clenching and unclenching of your muscles. clark looked up at you, a dark curl falling down his forehead. âoh you can. and you will.â and you knew you were fucked. you knew clark wasnât going to stop until you had another orgasm. as if the other 6 werenât enough. he was greedy. and this was the only time he allowed himself to be greedy.
âi know, sweet girl. i know itâs hard, but you can do it. youâre so strong. i know you can do it. just come for me, sweetheart.â he praises you as if he himself isnât superman. the man with literal super strength was stroking your ego, telling you how strong you were.
âi⊠fuck!â you cried out, clarkâs tongue licking from your entrance to your clit before suckling gently. he could tell you were so fucking close, the way your pussy was clenching, your body hot and tense with impending orgasm. he was trying to be gentle knowing how overstimulated you were right now, but gosh he just wanted ravage you and make you cum harder than you ever have before. and trust me, heâs made you cum hard several times. it was like a competition with himself each time.
tears were rolling down your cheeks and onto the pillow beneath your head. the pleasure was overwhelming and the way your body worked extra hard to come again had sent you into oblivion. your orgasm hit you like a freight train, your hips bucking against clarkâs mouth as you whimpered and cried out his name like a mantra. clark groaned as he watched you come undone, your body convulsing as you rode out your high. clark flicked his tongue gently along your clit, drawing out your pleasure while trying not to crumble you more than you already have.
clark presses several soft kisses to your clit as he watches you tremble with aftershocks of your orgasm and he swears youâve never looked so beautiful. your chest is heaving, breathing heavy and a completely blissed out expression on your face. âyou did so well for me, sweetheart. iâm so proud of you.â clark presses a kiss to your inner thigh before crawling up your body and letting you taste yourself on his lips. âyou taste yourself?â clark mumbles against your lips, brushing your tears away with his thumbs. you nod your head. âyou taste like an angel straight from heaven.â
he's pounding into you the same way he usually does, rubbing your clit the same direction, whispering the same praises as usual... but something is different.
in all honesty, noânot everything is the same. tonight, you both decided to try and push past your limit to see how far you could go during sex with clark.
your mind was foggy with pleasure and your eyes were rolled back into oblivion, the sensation of the veins running down his cock grinding against your slick walls had rendered you stupid. your speech wasn't even coherent anymoreâevery other word was slurred and your sentences bled through eachother.
he wasn't much better eitherâhis cheeks were an interesting shade of pink and his curls were frizzy, canines biting down into his lips to stop himself from cumming too quick. his mind was a bit clearer than yours, and he could still form somewhat correct sentences like, "j-just like thaâ oh my- fuck, it's so warm andâ shit..." which only contributed to making you go even dumber.
but this, all of this, was the norm during sexual encounters like these. so why couldn't he shake off the feeling that something was different?
a suddenly clear sentence from you interrupted his thoughts, "holy shitâ clark, I'm g'nna cum! gonna cum so fucking hard, iâ shit, it feelsâ" and he knows to double down, intensifying every movement of his.
then, he heard things. truly unusual things.
he heard you heart beat at a pace he's never heard from you before, he heard your blood rushing around your veins faster than it ever did, and he heard... liquid?
though his hearing was disturbed by a loud cry from you, a sweet and desperate "m'cumming, m'cumming!" that had him moaning almost as loud as you did.
what took him by surprise, however, is that right when he was expecting the usual increase in wetness and contractions, he got something entirely new.
liquid. streams of your cum coming out in short squirts, seemingly following the rhythm of at which he was rubbing your clit. it was so messy and warm and sticky, and then he looked at your face, and saw an expression of utmost pleasure right before his body contracted and almost crumbled before you as he felt your pussy squeezing down on him like never before.
clark kent was surrounded by lust, by pleasureâblinding, intoxicating, and so fucking good.
so he succumbed.
he gave in.
he suddenly grabbed you and pulled you up from the bed, wrapping his arms around your head and holding you flush against him as his hips involuntarily kept bucking into you, his cock uncontrollably twitching inside your wet cunt before he spilled into you, moaning your name so loud you both were positive the entire neighborhood got a piece of the situation, filling you to the brim with his seed.
your ograsms lasted longer than normal, sending you into an ecstatic haze that had the both of you shaking and twitching.
when it ended, you both finally collapsed on the bed, sticking to eachother thanks to the liquid evidence of your pleasure.
"s-shit... I didn't.. I didn't know this would happen I'm sorry about theâ about the sheets.." you apologized between pants, gulping down the saliva that had pooled inside your mouth.
he chuckles, caressing your shoulders lightly, "its okay... I didn't know you could.. squirt." and he looks at you with his kryptonian eyes, like a predator about to bounce on his prey.
"I know what you're thinking but you're gonna have to wait atleast two weeks for me to even think about attempting that again."
Summary: You were an adult, with adult money. You can buy things that bring you joy! Hopefully your boyfriend never finds out about it.
Word Count: 3.2k
Warnings: Straight up fluff, small mention of blood, superhero-ing things
A/N: First Clark fic! Hope I did the punk-rocker justice!! (also trying a new writing style to avoid having to use y/n as often. I think it's neat!)
It was a silly purchase.Â
Something that you insisted you didnât need.Â
But, with ten dollars less in your wallet, you walked out of the mall with your head held high, new purchase secured in your bag.
It was the sort of purchase youâd want to keep from your boyfriendâat all costs. Not that it was a secret, something to hide in the dark shadows of the unknown, but because it was deeply⊠embarrassing. The kind of embarrassing that reminisced on high school days, mean girls and cutting words, lunches-eaten-in-the-bathroom kind of embarrassing.Â
So, it was an omission, you decided. Something that you simply kept from your boyfriend, but, if he were to ask, youâd tell him.
Maybe.
â
You didnât mind the superhero-ing, not at all. You knew your boyfriend was a good person, him using his metahuman abilities for the greater good only confirmed your theories, amplified your feelings on the matter. He did the most for the people around him, friends, family and strangers alike. You didn't mind it, couldn't mind it, even.
What you did mind was the blaring fact that he was late to dinner⊠again.
You pulled all the stops. Handmade pizza with dough you had resting all day, your motherâs recipe for garlic knotsâone of his favoritesâand you even uncorked a moderately priced bottle of wine, the one from the back of your cabinet. Everything was perfect.
What would be even more perfect would be the man of hour sitting across from you, making that same corny joke about pizzaâevery time, without fail.Â
âWanna hear a joke about pizza?â
âClarkâŠâ
âCome on, you know you love it!â
âI really donâtââ
âNah, youâre right, itâs too cheesy.âÂ
What you would give for that right about now. Shit-eating grin and all.
Instead, you sat with a cooling plate of pizza and disappointment. In his defense, he had sent you a quick message about an hour ago, one like he usually does, laced with apology and too many emojis to decipher. He even added an American flag to the end of his message this time, which was odd, a new one for him.Â
Until you scrolled on your phone, passing post after post about Superman currently fighting inter-dimensional beings in Washington D.C, the monuments making for a more compelling backdrop to the fight than the typical skyline you were used to.Â
The American flag made sense now.
You gave up on the idea of a shared dinner about twenty minutes later, carefully replacing the slices of pizza and garlic knots in containers for a future mealâprobably his lunch for tomorrow, if he even made it back in time to pack one. Instead of corking the rest of the wine, you carried it with you to the couch, sans glass, and made quick work to collapse into the pillows.
It was your first argumentâif you could even call it thatâwhat pillows to furnish your new apartment with. You had wanted something a bit more simple, something that wasnât too flashy or forward, something to go with the seasons. Clark wanted⊠something different. He was a manâmetahuman abilities or notâat the end of the day, and he wanted that stupid chicken pillow. Not a pillow with chickens printed on it, a pillow entirely shaped like a chicken. Claimed it âreminded him of Maâ.Â
No chance in hell you were winning the fight after that.
The chicken sat over on the seat across from you, menacingly, a reminder of who you were missing. A swig of a bottle in your hand calmed your sorrows, just for a moment, before tuning in to the news that flashed across your television. Reporters were focusing on the attack on the Nationâs Capital, the monsters that were attacking it and Supermanâs ability to reign them in. Some were applauding Superman for his hard work and dedication to the country, others chose to criticize the damage he had caused to a few of the monuments.Â
âRather there be some rubble from monuments celebrating slave owners than actual human lives,â you said into the bottle, taking another small sip. âBut okay.âÂ
You got tired of the news, tired of watching your boyfriend from afar, worrying about his safety as if he wasnât literally the most capable man on Earth to handle something like this. Flipping through streaming services, you settled on something mindless to watch, to get your head out of the clouds and back to reality. Watching hot people try to flirt with one another seemed like a good way to do it.
A buzz came from your lap.Â
C.K đ€ :
Taking longer than expected. Iâm sorry honey. âčïž Â
You scowled at the phone, pursing your lips as you re-read the words.Â
Another buzz.Â
C.K đ€:Â
Sleep well. Love you. â€ïž
âLove you too,â you said softly to the universe, as if he could hear you across state lines. You wouldnât put it past him.Â
It was difficult, being Superman's partner. The late nights, the constant worrying, the anxiety that maybe you'd let his secret slip if the right person asked you at the wrong time. You knew this. You prepared for this. What made it easy was Clark. Sweet, sweet Clark Kent, farmboy from Kansas with the heart of gold. He made it easy, made you so willing to keep up with it all.
He was worth it.
You give up on the rest of your evening, trashy reality television and wine long forgotten. With heavy steps you tread to the bathroom to get ready for bed, peeling your clothes off unceremoniously. The hamper was nearly full, youâd have to do laundry tomorrow, adding the cherry on top of your shit cake of a day. A moment of appreciation for your underwear was given, your eyes raking over your reflection in the mirrorâbright red lace, accentuating your features nicely, a favorite of Clarkâs.
âShame,â you hummed, peeling it off and throwing it on top of the hamper, knowing heâd see it. Good, you thought. Suffer, you added.
Opting for something cozy, you rummaged around the dirty clothes and pulled out one of Clarkâs shirts, one he had recently worn on your latest date night around the city. A black t-shirt from a Daily Planet outing, a picnic of some kind, he loved it to bitsâmeaning he wore it frequently. A quick sniff test allowed you to pull it on, choosing it as your sleepwear of the evening. Adding a pair of your own shorts, a pair from college, you decided this was the best you could do.
Washing of your face allowed you to take a moment for yourself. Rubbing your nightly routine into your skin was usually relaxing, methodical, even. Taking care of yourself before bed was something you tried to find pride in, whenever you remembered to do it, anyway. Grounding you to the here and now, not spiraling with thoughts of Clark getting hurt, limping home to you, bloodied, battered and bruised, dyingâ
You spat your toothpaste out.
When did you start brushing your teeth?
As if anyone else was in your apartment, you tiptoed across the hall into your bedroom, quiet as a mouse, ready for the comfort and solace of your bed. It was a cozy thing, sheets made of flannel for the cooler winter months, Clarkâs pillow a bit firmer than your ownâsomething about neck pain, he mentioned once. You found it hard to believe a metahuman like himself could get neck pain from simply sleeping, but you allowed the man to have his delusions, as long as you kept every single one of your own pillows on your side. All three of them, two for your head, one for your legs, saved for whenever Clark couldnât replace it.
Much like tonight.
Falling asleep was never a chore, you welcomed it with open arms most of the time, shutting your brain off and allowing it to come⊠that was the struggle. But, with your secret weapon stashed behind your pillows, now firmly tucked between your chest and neck, you found the solace of slumber.
â
The sun was shining through your window, the curtains had been pulled back, much to your sleepy dismay. Groaning, you rolled over, hoping you could just⊠will them to close on their own. Instead, you were met with the brick wall that was Clark Kent, laying peacefully beside you. He hadnât bothered changing out of his suit, not fully, taking in every inch of sunlight he could. You knew at first glance the man wasnât sleeping, his breathing was too irregular. You also knew he could tell you werenât sleeping, either.Â
âNo⊠suit in the bed,â you managed to grumble, voice still thick with sleep. Your hand patted his arm lovingly, despite your words.Â
âIâm sorry, baby,â he responded, his eyes opening up to meet your own. Blue as the sky, deep as the ocean, you had told him once. He liked that. âI was so tired andââ
ââneeded sun,â you finished, yawning. âYeah, yeah.â
âIâll wash them,â he promised quickly, turning a bit on his side, his gaze never leaving your own. âToday, I promise.â
âYou promise a lot of things, Superman,â your voice had no real bite, no edge, but it still stung in his ears.
âIâm sorry,â Clark sighed. âI deserve that, yeah.â He deflated into the mattress, as if his body was finally allowing him to relax, your presence almost a soothing balm on his soul. âI deserve that,â he repeated, a bit softer.
The hum of the fan in your bedroom drowns your ears, filling any empty space your silence left. âYou donât. Deserve that, I mean.â
Clark closed his eyes for a moment, his lips pursing half as long before he responds. âI do. I-I promised Iâd be here, I left you alone with your meal you worked so hard onâwhich looked amazingââ
âSlow down, Kansas,â you said, pressing a hand to his chest. He took a deep breath. âI know what I signed up for.â
He sat straight up, as if your hand had suddenly burned him. âNo, you signed up forâfor some dorky reporter, a kid from some small town in the Midwest, not⊠Superman.â
You look at him fully, watching as this sturdy rock of a man was practically crumbling before you.
âYouâve seen Shrek, yeah?â
âIâwhat?â He looked down at you as you began to sit up, not nearly matching his height, but closer than before. His thick brows furrowed nearly into a single line. âHow does that have anything to do withââ
âMuch like ogres,â you said, cocking your head slightly, âyou, Clark Kent, are like an onion.â
He blinked.
ââŠan onion?â
âYou have layers,â you shrugged. âSometimes theyâre stinky, complicated, superhuman, but layers nonetheless.â
âI donât think I quite love this analogy, sweetheart,â Clark finally chuckled.
âItâs too early for me to be poetic, sorry,â you said a bit sheepishly. âBut you get what Iâm trying to say, yeah?â
âYou love me, stinky layers and all?â
âSomething like that.â Your grin could light up the room, sunlight be damned. It was something he was certain of. âI love you, stinky boy, please stop trying to make decisions for me.â
âI love you too,â he said softly. âAnd⊠Iâll try.â
âAnd stop overthinking so much,â you poked his forehead. âI can see the steam pouring out of your ears.â
He laughed at that. âNoted.â
âWe can talk more about your layers later, after some coffee. Sound good?â
He nodded once. âYeah. We can talk all about my stinky layers later.â
You groan. âYou know I donât think you're actually stinkyâthough letâs be honest you didnât even touch a shower before getting into our bedââ
âIâm washing the sheets!â He laughed again, watching your nose scrunch up comically. âIâm serious!â
âSo am I!â Your laugh matched his own, feeling his fingers run up your sides. An attack, clearly. âClark!â Â
âNope, Clarkâs not here,â he said, expertly evading your dodges. âSupermanâs got an agenda.â
âA-agenda?â You squeak between gasps.
âA tickle agenda,â he shrugged. âTickle taxes need to be paid.â
If laughter was a true currency, as Clark had teased, the two of you would be rich beyond your years. Thankfully, after your fourth or fifth smack to his arms, he stilled his onslaught. âYou missed pizza night,â you said breathlessly, eyes chasing his own.Â
âI know.â
âYou love pizza night.â
âI know,â he groaned.Â
âItâs still in the fridge,â you hummed, thumb rubbing circles on his elbow. âI hardly ate any of it, so you can have all the pizza you want.â
âI only need a pizza your heart,â he grinned.
âClark.â
âWhat? Too cheesy?âÂ
âClark!â You throw your pillow over your face, as if it would hide you from his blinding grin, the one you knew you loathed, the one you knew you loved.Â
âCome on, pretty,â Clark said, gently pulling the pillow off of you, a bit of your blanket following in his grip. âLet me see that smile.â
You tried your best to twist your smile into a pout, failing miserably. âMânot smiling.â
âSmirking, smiling,â he kissed your nose. âSame thing.â You allowed him to continue to press kisses to your face, each one taking great care to be gentle, not overwhelming in the slightest. His peppering slowed when his gaze found a flash of red and blue under your sheets.
Confused by the sudden break, your own eyes opened, following his sight quickly. If it wasnât for his super-speed, you would have flung the culprit across the room and into the abyss, but no, your boyfriend was always faster, always one step ahead. âOh you really donât have toâŠâ
In his iron grip was a stuffed rabbit, the one from your childhood, the one that survived every move, every heartbreak, every life change. That wasnât the secret. Clark knew full well about BunBun, hell, he shared a bed with her occasionally. Who would try to separate a girl from her emotional support stuffy? Not Clark Kent, thatâs for sure. What did surprise him, was her new attire. Long gone was the faded shirt with a baseball teamâs logoâshe was originally a gift from your father, a huge fan of the teamâand in its place was a brand new, shiny, red and blueâ
âBunBun has a Superman shirt?â
You wanted to die of embarrassment. Thrown off the top of your building, set aflame, drowned in the bay, whatever could kill you fastest. âHer old one was falling apartâŠâ your conviction was shaky, your reasoning a bit unsound. You didnât even believe you, how could you expect the man who could literally hear your heartbeat to do such a thing?
He pulled the rabbit into the light, fully out of the sheets and straight into the air. âWell Iâll be darned.â
âIt was a stupid purchase, an impulse buy,â your grave was practically digging itself at this point. âIt hardly cost me anything!â
His thumbs ran over the print on the front, his âSâ logo clear and clean, hardly a shoddy piece of merchandise. âI didnât even know they made stuff like this, I mean, the mugs and the shirts are a given, but thisâŠ?â
âIs silly right?â You finished his thought, trying to grab your rabbit from his death gripâobviously to no avail. âI mean, sooo silly! Itâs hysterical, really. ClearlyâClark give her back!â
âNo, no,â you could feel his chuckles shake the bed, his arm flying, trying to keep the rabbit out of your grabby hands. âItâs so⊠cute.â
âI swear on all that is holy if you donât give BunBun back to me right nowââ
âDid youâŠ?â He pressed his nose to the blue fabric. âOh honeyâŠâ
âDonât.â
âYou didnât,â he nearly growled, the sound coming deep from his chest.
âClark, please, just let me rot in this bed foreverââÂ
âYou sprayed it with my cologne?âÂ
This must be what heaven feels like, you think. Considering you wish you were dead in this moment, you must be in heaven. Your eyes closed the second he spit out the truth, his arms grappling to you like a vice against his chest, all warm and full of affection. Your mumbles were lost to you, but everything to him.
âHm? What was that?â
âYou heard me, Kansas,â you said, a bit louder, peeking up from the mountains of his chest. âI miss you sometimes, okay?â
âSweetheart, I know you do,â he rubbed your back lovingly, BunBun casually hanging in his other hand. âWhen Iâm gone I miss you too, though, clearly youâre winning the âMissing My Partner Olympicsâ.â
He laughed at your attempt to smack his chest again.
âYou canât blame me,â you pointed at him, the distraction working just long enough to wriggle the rabbit out of his grasp. With BunBun in hand, your heart rate slowed, just a bit, your relief almost instant. âI occasionally miss my boyfriend, sue me.â
His grin softened at your declaration, though layered in that classic humor of yours he knew so well, it was honestâtrue. âItâs cute, youâre cute.â
âItâs embarrassingââ
ââadorable.â
âDeplorableââ
ââendearing.â
âItâs not even licensed!â
âDo I need to license my image?â He asked no one in particular, the voice lower than expected.
âI mean⊠theyâre using it without your permission, Clark.â
He furrowed his brows.
ââŠshould I be suing people? I mean, can I even sue people?â
This time, the laughter from the both of you shook your bed.
âSuperman shouldnât be suing people,â you decided.
âIâm not seeing any profit from this, sweetheart,â he added. âI mean, think of the things I could buy you with that kind of cash.â
âWhat? Like a ring?â
It was a tease, a joke.
âYeah,â he said softly. "Like a ring.â
He wasnât joking.
âS-Superman shouldnât be suing people,â you repeated, your heartbeat drumming loudly in your ears. Surely your pulse was skyrocketing.Â
âYeah,â he hummed, looking down at the stuffed animal, taking care to admire his own insignia. âProbably for the best.â
And so, the conversation was dropped, the topic untouched.
âThis is a sign though,â Clark added, turning to you now. âWe have to make a trip to the mall.â
âWhyâs that, handsome?â
âI need a stuffy thatâs dressed like you, duh,â he said incredulously. âI feel left out.â
âYouâre impossible.â
âImpossibly serious,â he booped your nose. âItâd be a matching set! BunBun could sit proudly next to Bearemy on the bed, you donât have to stuff her between the headboardââÂ
âBearemy?â
âYeah,â his voice cracked, shoulders touching his ears in a shrug. âThatâs his name.â
âYou donât even have a bear yet, and youâve already named him?â
Clark jumped out of bed, peeling off his suit. âOh honey, if thatâs shocking to you, do not go through my notes app on my phoneâyouâd be horrified at whatâd youâd find.â
The small revelation warmed your soul.
Maybe youâd tell him about your super-secret list, too. One day.
âI donât plan to snoop, Supes.â
âThank goodness,â he sighed playfully, walking to the hallway. âYour trust is everything to me, sweetheart.â
âYeah, yeah,â you watched him swoon against the doorway, nearly nakedâsave for his grey boxers. A moment of appreciation for your boyfriendâs appearance was never a wasted one. âGo shower, stinky.â
âStinky, stinky onion man,â Clark sang softly, a bit off key and no real tune in mind, waltzing to the bathroom only a few steps away. Only until you heard the old pipes creak did you finally flop back onto your pillow, rabbit cuddled against your chest.Â
âYeah,â you nodded to the rabbit, as if she could hear you. âIâm gonna marry that man.â
alternatively: Clark Kent and the Art of the orgasm
18+ MDNI
whatâs this? Oh itâs Clark Kentâs poorly disguised overstimulation kink
word count: another drabble, probably 1-1.5k
warnings: overstimulation, some overstimulation, maybe a hint of overstimulation, some overstimulation if you squint, oh god I almost forgot overstimulation
fem!reader, no use of Y/N
You felt like you were missing something.
Your girlfriends would talk about it, giggle about how their boyfriends had managed to get them off, sometimes even twice. Youâd smile and nod, pretend to be happy for them. Sometimes youâd fib, tell a salacious story of your own, never admitting that none of boyfriends had ever actually gotten you there.
As time went on, you began to just assume your friends were lying, or worse maybe, there was just something wrong with you.
Then you met Clark.
Youâd told him before you slept together that youâd never actually orgasmed before. The words tumbling off your tongue in a moment of insecurity and nervousness. Years of lame, lazy lovers tricking you into thinking it just wasnât possible. You thought he deserved to know. You assured him you would still enjoy it, still wanted to feel that closeness with him, just that he shouldnât be offended when it doesnât happen.
Clark just kissed you, and said âIâll take care of it.â
He made you cum three times that night before he even got inside you.
He became obsessed with it after that.
Clark Kent, your sweet boyfriend, the mild mannered mommaâs boy, the clumsy reporter in his too-big suits, is absolutely insatiable. He lays you out, expertly kisses you until your lips are numb and presses you until the mattress until you have no choice but to melt.
He crawls down your body, joking that heâs visiting his second home. Then he eats you out until his glasses fog up, when most men might take that as a sign to stop, Clark just takes them off, places them carefully on the nightstand, and keeps going.
He ignores your whines, the way you tug his hair, the way your legs clamp around his head. If anything, it all spurs him on, making him even more enthusiastic. He uses every part of his face to make it happen, his tongue dexterous and fast, never tiring. His nose finding a way to nudge your clit just right.
Clark only uses his hands when he wants to tell you something, using his fingers to get you stretch you, his thumb circling your clit. Heâs never not working you over.
âSweetheart, I missed you so much.â He says, voice dripping with affection, as if youâve ever spent longer than two days apart.
âHoney you taste so good, please can you give me one more?â Please, as if itâs really a question, you know better and itâs never just one more.
When youâre shaking with overstimulation, thighs clenched around his head, âBaby, stop. Iâm doing something important.â He never gives you a chance to comply, instead taking your thighs in his hands and pressing them into the mattress, spreading you open for him.
When he fucks you, itâs all-consuming.
He thrusts deep, each stroke is well aimed, perfectly timed, and leaves you agonizingly full. Clark found that soft spot inside you (the one that makes your vision white out), that first night too. He makes sure to hit every-time now.
By this point, youâre jello, or at least close to it. Half the words out of your mouth make no sense, just babbles of his name and half-slurred âI love youâs.
Your hands scratch down his back, never making purchase, never breaking the skin despite your attempts (and much to Clarkâs dismay, he loves being marked by you, reminders that heâs yours just as much as youâre his).
Clark has surpassed every man youâve ever been with, in skill, size and stamina. You thought it would be over after he came, thought it was just average human male biology.
Once again, Clark proves himself to be above and beyond average.
He can go for three, some nights even four rounds. Half the time he doesnât even break a sweat, he fucks like heâs superhuman. He fucks like itâs what he was made for, specifically like he was made for you.
He tells you as much. His words saccharine and sinful.
âThis is everything, youâre everything.â He murmurs against your neck, grinding deeper than you thought possible.
âNever wanna leave you, gonna stay right here, forever.â You believe him. You honestly believe he would spend the rest of his life inside you, you would let him.
âThey didnât deserve you, didnât know how to touch you. Properly.â He laments, as if you even still think about them, as if you could remember their names when heâs this deep.
âAlways gonna make you feel good, always gonna put you first.â He promises, and despite your better judgement, you believe him when he says that too.
You tighten around him, again, and again and again. You moan his name until youâre blue in the face. Wrap your legs around his waist and even though every part of your body feels like itâs on fire, you pull him closer. You kiss him hard, and tell him to cum deep.
Clark has ruined you, if he ever ended things youâd be forced to join a nunnery or risk spending the rest of your life comparing everyone else to him. Then you look in his eyes, and see the future youâre still too scared to talk about out loud, and think that you have nothing to worry about.
He pushes you over the edge again. Apologizing for it.
âIâm sorry Honey, Iâm so sorry, I know itâs a lot.â Clarkâs like a man possessed. Your cunt is so wet and sticky he almost slides out every time he draws back. He wipes the tears from your cheeks, and presses the softest kiss to your lips.
âJust one more, câmon baby, one more.â You give it to him. body tensing at his command, you donât even try to fight it this time, you know itâs no use. Clark the immovable object, your orgasm the unstoppable force.
You asked him why one night, after he had cleaned you up and rolled you into his arms.
âIâm making up for lost time.â He said, kissing the top of your head. Itâs almost a gentlemanâs answer, but you know better. You know the real answer, he says it everytime, right before he falls over that last edge. When heâs too lost in pleasure to pretend like heâs doing this just for your benefit.
âI love that Iâm the only one who can make you feel like this.â
Itâs usually what sends you over the edge, for the real last time.
You love it too.
The chronicles of Clark Kent and MY poorly hidden overstimulation kink <3
Clark has this thing with you â this innate desire to just take care of you; to not just lead you but to guide you in any which way that matters. He wants to make sure you know how much he loves you ânot that its a question in your mind, he just has this deep impulse to just do things for you because he loves you.
It starts small in the beginning of your relationship. With him paying all of your bills in full â it started with him scratching his nails at the nape of your necck one night while the two of you were watching TV with you sat on the floor between his legs.
He'd noticed your eletricity bill on the counter when he came in but wasnt going to mention anything until you'd had time to settle from the day. And when he does finally mention it later into the evening, its rather blase and said with little room for discussion âas if it would eventually always happen, as if it'd already been happening and he just wanted you to be privy of it in this moment.
"Hey, hon?" He asks, voice muffled as he bites into his sandwhich, "Can you call your bank tomorrow?"
You're immediately turning around in confusion, brows furrowing as you ask "...why?"
"Just needa transfer your bills to my account thats all. No biggie." He finishes his bite and ruffles your hair before motioning back to the TV, "you're missin' your favorite part."
It stretches beyond just material things âinto far more intimate and domestic territory. Things reveal the measure and depth of his love in the way that he holds his hand at the base of your neck, guiding you through a parking lot or the grocery store. he loves the way your skin raises beneath his warm palm and the way you involuntarily shiver when he massages the skin gently.
It's even worse once the two of you go public -- done in an oh-so-Clark fashion full of possessive display of you.
It wasn't planned. You'd happened to end up right where he was when the criminal was apprehended. There was something unruly about him this time. Dark hair disheveled and face flushed pink, his brow still furrowed, soot and remnants of ash and cement still stuck his suit. Clark had caught a glimpse of you in the crowd immediately made his way towards you, pulling you by the nape of your neck into a deafening hug -- one so intimate you nearly forgot you were in the middle the street and most definitely not alone in this moment.
But it's so easy to get lost in the moment as Clark slips his tongue past your glossed lips, tracing the arch of your mouth with a feverish groan --just quiet enough for you to hear, yet it sends a shiver to your heat all the same. And a part of you wants someone other than you to hear it -- to know you're the one thing that reduces Clark to a far more feral being.
Scattered clicks and flashes and squeals surround the two of you and Clark pulls off of you with a 'pop' but not before he lands a lofty peck to your lips. You're rendered speechless at the act. Staring up at him with your eyes wide and lips slightly agape. It's a lot. overwhelmingly so. all of it is.
Clark's hand still rests at the nape of your neck, gently stroking your raised skin, reminding you that he's there with you. That you'll be okay. that you'll talk about it when once you get home. that he's not leaving you here.
"You're drooling sweetheart," he wipes the small bit of it off your lips, your gloss sticks to the pad of his thumb which he brings to up to his lips to kiss before leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead.
Though it doesn't appear so on the surface, you know him well enough to read between the lines of the way he holds you just slightly away from the cameras so that you've still got some of your privacy. And the way that he pushes you behind him when reporters flood the area, trying to get a glimpse of you and hound the details of your relationship out of both of you.
you nearly swoon at all.
And of course, there's moments that fester once he encourages you to finally move in with him once he's paying for everything and anything that might've been a stressor or responsibility for you.
"Your money is for you." is his philosophy -- yet you really don't pay for anything nowadays. Sometimes, Clark will just hand you a wad of money with a kiss to your cheek. You've learned to not ask what for or why.
So, it comes as no surprise that one night while the two of you are on the couch with your legs thrown over his lap that he asks you when the last time you had a day to yourself was. Between work and cooking and your numerous hobbies, you haven't had much time to enjoy yourself or anything for that matter.
You can't even give him a straightforward answer and that prompts him moving his hand up higher and higher up the length of your leg. gently massaging and stroking your soft skin until he meets the fabric of your sleep shorts, pulling them and your panties to the side in one hand, he uses his other to circle your clit.
"Gonna give you some money, sweetheart," he leans forward, pressing kisses to your neck and the curve of your jaw. Your eyes roll back, and you sink deeper into the cushions. "Want you to get your nails done" he moves to the other side of your neck "And go shopping, wanna hear all about it." he slips a finger past your soaked folds, and you shiver, "How's that sound, huh?"
you can only nod dumbly beneath him, whispering a long drawn out sob of "yesss," grasping onto his arm as he begins to scissor your cunt open. He pushes one of your thighs up to press against your chest, opening you up for him. Clark presses a kiss to your ankle as he looks down at you, "Eyes on me âatta girl."
This is just a fun little thing Iâve been wanting to do since the dawn of time but could never find a post to reblog that satisfied what I wanted. So I made this, feel free to reblog and use it yourself!
â INTERVIEWER!READER is all soft sweaters, warm skin, and a brain that never stops observing. sheâs always got her headphones half-on and her mind half-somewhere elseâlooping film scores like prayers. her mornings start with crossword puzzles and the perfect cup of coffee (extra cinnamon, no sugar, just right), and if she doesnât get either, the day feels wrong. â
â INTERVIEWER!READER who actually has a fear of too much attention.â
â INTERVIEWER!READER sheâs not a romanticâshe thinks love is messy and a little inefficientâbut that doesnât stop people from falling for her anyway. it doesn't help that she's a bit flirty too. oh well. she gives off the girl-next-door energy that lingers in rooms long after she leaves. sheâs calm, until she isnât. sheâll fight you if she has to, and she wonât miss. maybe because sheâs so pretty it doesnât feel fair. so pretty it hurts.â
â INTERVIEWER!READER her ADHD is through the roofâsheâs forgetful, scattered, talks with her hands, and loses everything except her passion. she jumps from idea to idea like itâs a game of hopscotch, and somehow she still lands on her feet. hyperfocuses for seven hours straight without blinking, then forgets to eat. reads movie scripts like scripture, leaves voice memos in the middle of the night about film ideas, quotes dialogue during arguments by accident. (âitâs not personal, itâs just structure.â
â INTERVIEWER!READER who loves crossword puzzles because they give her just enough chaos and just enough control. she wears oversized headphones in public even when theyâre off even though secretly she's listening to Summer Walker. keeps Polaroids in her back pocket like receipts. her signature scent is cinnamon, caramel macchiato, and clean laundry warm from the dryer. soft. toasty. unforgettable. â
â INTERVIEWER!READER who never meant to end up on red carpets, but found herself there anyway. interviewing people when she wanted to be the people. making a career from the sidelines while secretly storyboarding her own future in the margins of every press pass sheâs ever worn. sheâll lose her keys, forget what day it is, talk through a scene while pacing the room barefoot. but she feels everything deeply. knows when a shot is right just by instinct. and when itâs time to show up, she doesâsharp, on time, and locked in. â
â
INTERVIEWER!READER WORKS
interviewing drew for queer
the interview with drew goes viral
unexpected encounters
inspired by @rafesangelita
comment if youâd like to be tagged for this series
warnings : nothing but extra standard fluff & carter being adorable, i loveee him (down bad)
(please do not copy or plagiarize, this is my original work subject to copyright)
you were just passing by. checking charts, half-listening to the buzz of conversation down the hall, trying to get through your shift without another consult being dumped on you. but then you heard itâlaughter. high-pitched, wheezy, and unmistakably coming from mrs. greeleyâs room.
you paused in the doorway, brows lifted.
and there he was.
dr. carter. perched at the foot of the bed, sleeves rolled up, tie a little crooked. hunched over a tiny plastic board like it was a surgical table. beside him, mrs. greeley clutched the tweezers in her shaky hands, squinting behind her glasses with a determined grin.
âsee that?â he said, tapping the edge of the board. âthatâs where your gallbladder isâor, in this case, the little bucket-looking thing. yours needs to come out because itâs not draining properly. so we go in nice and easy, andââ
bzzzt.
mrs. greeley jumped slightly and huffed. âwell, i guess iâm dead.â
carter laughed under his breath, eyes kind. ânot quite. thatâs why iâll be doing it.â
you couldnât help smiling at the whole scene. mrs. greeley had been nervous about her surgery for daysâasking the same questions on loop, wringing her hands whenever anyone walked in with a white coat. leave it to carter to pull out a literal board game and explain it like they were in a middle school classroom.
âi thought you were a surgeon, not a game show host,â you said, your voice teasing as you stepped further into the room.
his head turned slowly, smile spreading like heâd been waiting for you to join in. âiâm trying new methods,â he said with a shrug. âhands-on education.â
mrs. greeley peered over her glasses. âyou a nurse?â
âyes, maâam,â you said, walking to the side of the bed. âbut i donât play games on the clock.â
âthatâs too bad,â carter said lightly, nudging the tweezers toward you on the tray. âmaybe you could help her out. moral support.â
you looked down at the board, then back at him. âthis your way of stalling before your next patient?â
âthis is my way of showing excellent bedside manner,â he replied, dead serious, but the sparkle in his eyes gave him away.
mrs. greeley looked between the two of you with a grin, eyes twinkling. âoh, i like her,â she said, nudging the tweezers toward you. âyou oughta keep her around, doctor.â
you smiled, the kind that crept up before you could stop it. a soft laugh slipped past your lips, surprising even you with how easy it came. âtempting offer,â you said, eyes flicking to carterâs.
he didnât miss it. âiâll think about it,â he murmured, but he wasnât looking at the board anymoreâhe was looking at you.
finally, you cleared your throat and took the tweezers. âalright,â you said, settling in beside the bed. âletâs see if iâve got the touch.â
you shifted your weight slightly, balancing your clipboard against your hip as you stepped closer. with one hand, you cleared a spot on the bedside table, sliding aside a plastic water cup and a wrinkled magazine, then set the clipboard down with a soft thud. your fingers lingered on the edge of it for a secondâlike maybe you were second-guessing this whole thingâbefore you reached back toward the tray.
your fingers reached for the tweezers, brushing against his in the space between. the contact was small, but neither of you moved. for a moment, it was like the whole room narrowed down to that shared pointâhis hand, your hand, and whatever it was passing between the two of you that wasnât just plastic game pieces.
then you satâcarefully, easing onto the edge of the bed beside mrs. greeley, letting your knees angle toward the game board. the mattress dipped under your weight, and you adjusted your posture, smoothing your scrubs down and tucking a strand of hair behind your ear like it gave you some kind of tactical edge.
you looked down at the board, blinking. âso⊠you want me to pull out his broken heart, or are we skipping to the spare ribs?â
âdealerâs choice,â he said, but his voice was lower now, softer. âjust donât mess it up.â
you tried. carefully. slowly. you leaned forward, tweezers slipping inside the tiny plastic cavity, eyes narrowing like this was an actual surgery. but thenâyour hand shifted. a slight tremor.
bzzzt.
you flinched. carter blinked once, like the sound snapped him out of whatever he was just thinking. you both glanced at mrs. greeley, who looked delighted.
ârookie mistake,â carter said, that grin pulling at the corner of his mouth again.
you let out a soft huff, half-annoyed, half-amused, as you set the tweezers back down on the tray with exaggerated care. âguess iâm not cut out for the big leagues,â you murmured, brushing your hands off like the operation board had done you personal harm.
carter raised a brow. âpoor coordination?â
âpoor patience,â you said, flashing him a grin. âand maybe a little fear of buzzing noises.â
he chuckled, leaning back just slightly, like he wasnât in scrubs, like this wasnât work, with his eyes still trained on you.âyou did better than most interns on their first day.â
âmm.â you tilted your head, playful. âflatter me all you want, carter, but iâm not trying again.â
he held up his hands in mock surrender. âsuit yourself.â
you turned toward mrs. greeley and gently slid the tweezers back to her side of the board. âyour turn, boss. show us how itâs done.â
she picked them up with purpose, squinting down at the board like it had personally offended her. âiâm getting that wishbone if itâs the last thing i do.â
mrs. greenley's focus returning to the game while carterâs eyes drifted back to yours.
âthanks for helping,â he said quietly, just above a whisper as to not to disturb mrs. greenley.
you shrugged, but it was softer now, a small smile tugging at your lips. âyouâve got an interesting teaching method.â
he tilted his head a little, smiling. his eyes still locked on yours. âit worked, didnât it?â
his knee brushed yoursâbarely, but enough that you felt it. you were both still perched at the edge of the bed, shoulders close, posture casual but not relaxed. not really. his arm rested just behind you, fingers curled loosely against the mattress like he might shift closer at any second. like he was thinking about it.
you swallowed, pulse kicking upânot from nerves, but from knowing. from feeling the quiet press of something that wanted to unravel right there in that shared space between you.
you let out a soft hum. âmm. iâll give you that.â
he didnât look away. didnât laugh this time. just held your gaze like he was still waiting for somethingâmaybe a sign, maybe permission, maybe nothing at all. maybe he just liked the way you looked at him when things slowed down.
his eyes flickeredâonce, twiceâfrom yours to your lips. then back again. like he didnât mean to do it, but couldnât help himself. like something in him was trying not to reach for you, not to close the space. he wasnât smiling anymore. not fully. just watching you in that still, focused way that felt deeper than it shouldâve. like he was reading every inch of your face, taking his time with it. like he could see straight through you.
there was a pauseâjust long enough to feel like something else was about to happen. like one of you might say something that shifted the air for good.
bzzzt.
âdamn it!â mrs. greeley barked, jabbing the tweezers against the board like it had betrayed her.
the sharp buzz cut through the air like a slapâstartling you both.
you both jumped slightly, startled by the soundâthen immediately cracked up. the tension snapped. then the laugh slipped outâfirst from you, then from him, and suddenly it was easy again. your body finally relaxed, and the smile that came next felt natural, no longer weighted with everything you werenât saying. carterâs head dropped forward with a quiet snort, his shoulder brushing yours as he laughed beside you.
you glanced at the clock on the wallâdouble checked, like maybe it would give you a few more minutes you didnât have. no luck.
you sighed, quiet but real, then looked back at carter. âi should get back,â you said, and it came out a little softer than intended. like you almost didnât want to go.
you stood, smoothing your palms down the front of your scrubs out of habit, grounding yourself with motion. the mattress lifted slightly behind you as your weight left it. carter shifted too, but didnât stand. he just watched.
you stepped away, smoothing your hands over your scrubs, and nodded toward mrs. greeley. âiâll come check in before rounds, alright?â
âyou better,â he said, a little too quick, like he hadnât meant to say it out loud.
but before you could react to his remark, mrs. greeley waved you off, eyes still locked on the board like it had insulted her pride. âbring backup. iâm not losing to plastic.â
your eyes flicked back to carter, just for a second. âsee you around, doctor.â
you didnât look back as you walked out, but you felt his eyes stay on you the whole way down the hall.
a few steps later, another bzzzt echoed down the corridor from mrs. greeleyâs room, followed by a muffled groan.
please read below for important rules before you request / keep reading my works here on my page.
i) Do not copy my works and repost then on ANY site, including tumblr. Or, translate then into any language and repost them. Itâs
ii) Do not send me a request you sent to someone else. I don't want to copy or seem like i'm copying someones work. All of my work is orginial and I intend to keep it this way
iii) I am at the liberty to accept or deny request sent to my ask box with my discretion. Long asks that are far too detailed will be skipped.
iv) I write for just about anyone, but I am open to others too. I write mostly anything except extremely themes like non-con, incest, etc. I write SFW and NSFW (getting into write smut hehe), fluff, angst (even though it's my least favorite genre) etc.
people i currently write for :
drew starkey and all of his portrayals
tom blyth and all of his portrayals
noah wyle and all of his portrayals
v.) be polite when entering my ask box & make sure to say thank you!
vi.) fics take a while, so give me some time to write them, i like to be thorough
vii.) Some of my works contain nsfw content. With that being said, minors are not to interact with those posts. I have a âwarningsâ on everything that requires a disclaimer. You are responsible for the content you consume, read at your own discretion!
warning: this is my first time writing a bit of smut, so please bare with me. cockwarming, whiny/brat!reader
(do not plagarize or copy, original work)
"you shouldâve just shut your mouth and stayed at the party"
the party was still going strongâmusic low and hazy in the background, neon lights bouncing off half-empty bottles and sweat-slick skin. people were laughing, draped over couches, leaning in too close to be heard over the bass. rafe was posted up with his friends, loose grin on his face, hand resting on your thigh like a placeholder. yâall had been there since the party began and it was heading well into the night now. your heels were starting to hurt. your drink was watered down. your patience was long gone. you kept shifting in your seat, it felt like you were the only one in the room who realized the night had dragged on too long. you didnât say it out loud, but your whole body was saying iâm over it.
you werenât even trying to hide it anymore. and maybe you didnât realize how loud you were beingâhow much you were testing him. you didnât think he noticed. he hadnât looked at you in a while, hadnât said a word about your attitude, hadnât told you to cut it out. he just kept talking, laughing with his friends like nothing was wrong. but he did. he noticed everything. he just didnât react.
not at first.
and if there was one thing rafe didnât do, it was rush. especially not when he was enjoying himself. you didnât say anythingânot out loudâbut your body said plenty. the way you kept crossing and uncrossing your legs. slumping back in the seat, then sitting forward like thatâd make him move faster. arms folded tight across your chest. a dramatic sigh every few minutes. rolling your eyes when he wasnât looking. muttering to yourself just loud enough for him to hear.
he stayed relaxed. kept talking. didnât look at you once. but his hand stayed on your thigh, heavier now. and when the conversation hit a lull, when his friend turned to get another drink, rafe finally leaned in, voice low in your ear.
âsince you canât sit still,â he said, tone calmâtoo calm, âyouâll sit like this.â
and now here you are, sitting in his lap, with your panties pushed to the side, his cock nestled inside you, fully clothed, fully ignored while he sat casually chugging a beer and talking to his friends like nothing had happened. like he wasn't practically torturing you right now. he hadnât even taken his arm from around your waist.
your heart was racing. your breath shallow. his hand stayed exactly where it had beenâon your thigh, fingers drumming lazily while he caught up with his boys. and you? you couldnât move. not even a little. every tiny shift sent a pulse through your gut, made you clench without meaning to. your thighs were trembling. you had your hands folded in your lap like prayer would save you, like holding still enough would make it easier. but it wasnât easy. not with him buried inside you, not with the low hum of conversation around you, not with the heat crawling up your spine from how goddamn full you felt. every few minutes, heâd shiftâjust a little. enough to remind you he was there. a slow bounce of his knee. a lazy roll of his hips when he leaned in to laugh. sometimes heâd adjust his grip on your thigh, fingers dragging higher, dragging you down with him. it wasnât enough to draw attention, but it was enough to drive you insane. and he never looked at you when he did it. never acknowledged it. just moved like he had all the time in the worldâand knew you didnât.
âyou doinâ okay, babe?â
his voice cut through your fog, smooth and low, that lazy southern drawl dipping into something filthier. and when you looked at himâhe was already looking at you. smirking like he hadnât just sent you to hell with a whisper and a grip.
you paused for a moment before nodding, barelyâlips pressed into a tight, polite smile like you werenât seconds from falling apart. âmm-hmm.â
it came out too soft, too tight. your voice didnât sound like yours anymore.
âgood girl,â he said under his breath, almost drowned out by laughter from across the table. then he turned back to his friend like it was nothing. like you werenât falling apart in his lap, clenching around him every time his knee bounced or his fingers twitched.
you swallowed hard. shifted the tiniest bit. regretted it instantly.
warnings : nothing but extra standard fluff & carter being adorable, i loveee him (down bad)
(please do not copy or plagiarize, this is my original work subject to copyright)
you were just passing by. checking charts, half-listening to the buzz of conversation down the hall, trying to get through your shift without another consult being dumped on you. but then you heard itâlaughter. high-pitched, wheezy, and unmistakably coming from mrs. greeleyâs room.
you paused in the doorway, brows lifted.
and there he was.
dr. carter. perched at the foot of the bed, sleeves rolled up, tie a little crooked. hunched over a tiny plastic board like it was a surgical table. beside him, mrs. greeley clutched the tweezers in her shaky hands, squinting behind her glasses with a determined grin.
âsee that?â he said, tapping the edge of the board. âthatâs where your gallbladder isâor, in this case, the little bucket-looking thing. yours needs to come out because itâs not draining properly. so we go in nice and easy, andââ
bzzzt.
mrs. greeley jumped slightly and huffed. âwell, i guess iâm dead.â
carter laughed under his breath, eyes kind. ânot quite. thatâs why iâll be doing it.â
you couldnât help smiling at the whole scene. mrs. greeley had been nervous about her surgery for daysâasking the same questions on loop, wringing her hands whenever anyone walked in with a white coat. leave it to carter to pull out a literal board game and explain it like they were in a middle school classroom.
âi thought you were a surgeon, not a game show host,â you said, your voice teasing as you stepped further into the room.
his head turned slowly, smile spreading like heâd been waiting for you to join in. âiâm trying new methods,â he said with a shrug. âhands-on education.â
mrs. greeley peered over her glasses. âyou a nurse?â
âyes, maâam,â you said, walking to the side of the bed. âbut i donât play games on the clock.â
âthatâs too bad,â carter said lightly, nudging the tweezers toward you on the tray. âmaybe you could help her out. moral support.â
you looked down at the board, then back at him. âthis your way of stalling before your next patient?â
âthis is my way of showing excellent bedside manner,â he replied, dead serious, but the sparkle in his eyes gave him away.
mrs. greeley looked between the two of you with a grin, eyes twinkling. âoh, i like her,â she said, nudging the tweezers toward you. âyou oughta keep her around, doctor.â
you smiled, the kind that crept up before you could stop it. a soft laugh slipped past your lips, surprising even you with how easy it came. âtempting offer,â you said, eyes flicking to carterâs.
he didnât miss it. âiâll think about it,â he murmured, but he wasnât looking at the board anymoreâhe was looking at you.
finally, you cleared your throat and took the tweezers. âalright,â you said, settling in beside the bed. âletâs see if iâve got the touch.â
you shifted your weight slightly, balancing your clipboard against your hip as you stepped closer. with one hand, you cleared a spot on the bedside table, sliding aside a plastic water cup and a wrinkled magazine, then set the clipboard down with a soft thud. your fingers lingered on the edge of it for a secondâlike maybe you were second-guessing this whole thingâbefore you reached back toward the tray.
your fingers reached for the tweezers, brushing against his in the space between. the contact was small, but neither of you moved. for a moment, it was like the whole room narrowed down to that shared pointâhis hand, your hand, and whatever it was passing between the two of you that wasnât just plastic game pieces.
then you satâcarefully, easing onto the edge of the bed beside mrs. greeley, letting your knees angle toward the game board. the mattress dipped under your weight, and you adjusted your posture, smoothing your scrubs down and tucking a strand of hair behind your ear like it gave you some kind of tactical edge.
you looked down at the board, blinking. âso⊠you want me to pull out his broken heart, or are we skipping to the spare ribs?â
âdealerâs choice,â he said, but his voice was lower now, softer. âjust donât mess it up.â
you tried. carefully. slowly. you leaned forward, tweezers slipping inside the tiny plastic cavity, eyes narrowing like this was an actual surgery. but thenâyour hand shifted. a slight tremor.
bzzzt.
you flinched. carter blinked once, like the sound snapped him out of whatever he was just thinking. you both glanced at mrs. greeley, who looked delighted.
ârookie mistake,â carter said, that grin pulling at the corner of his mouth again.
you let out a soft huff, half-annoyed, half-amused, as you set the tweezers back down on the tray with exaggerated care. âguess iâm not cut out for the big leagues,â you murmured, brushing your hands off like the operation board had done you personal harm.
carter raised a brow. âpoor coordination?â
âpoor patience,â you said, flashing him a grin. âand maybe a little fear of buzzing noises.â
he chuckled, leaning back just slightly, like he wasnât in scrubs, like this wasnât work, with his eyes still trained on you.âyou did better than most interns on their first day.â
âmm.â you tilted your head, playful. âflatter me all you want, carter, but iâm not trying again.â
he held up his hands in mock surrender. âsuit yourself.â
you turned toward mrs. greeley and gently slid the tweezers back to her side of the board. âyour turn, boss. show us how itâs done.â
she picked them up with purpose, squinting down at the board like it had personally offended her. âiâm getting that wishbone if itâs the last thing i do.â
mrs. greenley's focus returning to the game while carterâs eyes drifted back to yours.
âthanks for helping,â he said quietly, just above a whisper as to not to disturb mrs. greenley.
you shrugged, but it was softer now, a small smile tugging at your lips. âyouâve got an interesting teaching method.â
he tilted his head a little, smiling. his eyes still locked on yours. âit worked, didnât it?â
his knee brushed yoursâbarely, but enough that you felt it. you were both still perched at the edge of the bed, shoulders close, posture casual but not relaxed. not really. his arm rested just behind you, fingers curled loosely against the mattress like he might shift closer at any second. like he was thinking about it.
you swallowed, pulse kicking upânot from nerves, but from knowing. from feeling the quiet press of something that wanted to unravel right there in that shared space between you.
you let out a soft hum. âmm. iâll give you that.â
he didnât look away. didnât laugh this time. just held your gaze like he was still waiting for somethingâmaybe a sign, maybe permission, maybe nothing at all. maybe he just liked the way you looked at him when things slowed down.
his eyes flickeredâonce, twiceâfrom yours to your lips. then back again. like he didnât mean to do it, but couldnât help himself. like something in him was trying not to reach for you, not to close the space. he wasnât smiling anymore. not fully. just watching you in that still, focused way that felt deeper than it shouldâve. like he was reading every inch of your face, taking his time with it. like he could see straight through you.
there was a pauseâjust long enough to feel like something else was about to happen. like one of you might say something that shifted the air for good.
bzzzt.
âdamn it!â mrs. greeley barked, jabbing the tweezers against the board like it had betrayed her.
the sharp buzz cut through the air like a slapâstartling you both.
you both jumped slightly, startled by the soundâthen immediately cracked up. the tension snapped. then the laugh slipped outâfirst from you, then from him, and suddenly it was easy again. your body finally relaxed, and the smile that came next felt natural, no longer weighted with everything you werenât saying. carterâs head dropped forward with a quiet snort, his shoulder brushing yours as he laughed beside you.
you glanced at the clock on the wallâdouble checked, like maybe it would give you a few more minutes you didnât have. no luck.
you sighed, quiet but real, then looked back at carter. âi should get back,â you said, and it came out a little softer than intended. like you almost didnât want to go.
you stood, smoothing your palms down the front of your scrubs out of habit, grounding yourself with motion. the mattress lifted slightly behind you as your weight left it. carter shifted too, but didnât stand. he just watched.
you stepped away, smoothing your hands over your scrubs, and nodded toward mrs. greeley. âiâll come check in before rounds, alright?â
âyou better,â he said, a little too quick, like he hadnât meant to say it out loud.
but before you could react to his remark, mrs. greeley waved you off, eyes still locked on the board like it had insulted her pride. âbring backup. iâm not losing to plastic.â
your eyes flicked back to carter, just for a second. âsee you around, doctor.â
you didnât look back as you walked out, but you felt his eyes stay on you the whole way down the hall.
a few steps later, another bzzzt echoed down the corridor from mrs. greeleyâs room, followed by a muffled groan.
Pairing â coriolanus snow x black!reader
Word Count? 9.3k
Summary â What happens when youâre forced to confront the unsettling truths about your place in a world that feels both luxurious and inescapable?
Tags: (18+), cw: mentions of suicidal thoughts (small part in the middle), dark!toxic!coriolanus, emotional manipulation, gaslighting, physical abuse?AN: This is my first time sharing my writing on Tumblr, so please ignore any typos. It hasnât been proofread, but I hope you enjoy reading. Please let me Thank you! Do not reshare or use without giving me credit
The room was cold, the kind of cold that seeped into your skin and settled deep in your bones. The sharp scent of antiseptic stung your nose, sharp and cloying, almost like it was trying to suffocateÂ
The room was freezing, the chill creeping into my skin and settling deep in my bones, leaving me restless and uncomfortable. The sterile air smelled of antiseptic, sharp and chemical, clinging to the back of my throat in a way that made me want to gag. It was the kind of smell that had grown familiar over time but never less unpleasant, a constant reminder of the reason I was here. I perched on the edge of the examination table, its crinkly paper cover rustling beneath me every time I shifted. The noise felt deafening in the oppressive silence, each movement amplified in the cavernous emptiness of the room. I swung my feet slightly, my heels tapping against the cold metal frame in a nervous rhythm. It wasnât a conscious movementâmore of an outlet for the tension that had been building since I arrived.
The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, their harsh glare reflecting off every polished surface in the room. The white walls were devoid of anything resembling warmth or comfort, the kind of blank canvas that seemed designed to erase the humanity of anyone inside. My gaze wandered to the counter where an assortment of medical tools sat neatly arranged, their metallic edges gleaming under the stark light. Everything here was too precise, too pristine, as though the room itself wanted to remind me that I didnât belong. My fingers twisted at the hem of my sweater, pulling at the fabric until it stretched, the familiar texture grounding me just enough to keep the growing anxiety at bay.
I let my eyes drift to the window. Outside, the rain poured steadily, streaking down the glass in thin, erratic lines. It had been raining all day, the kind of relentless storm that turned the world into a dull, gray blur. The sound of it was faint but persistent, a soft, rhythmic tapping that filled the silence like a heartbeat. I watched the droplets race each other down the glass, merging and splitting, their paths as unpredictable as my own thoughts. For a moment, I focused on the rain instead of the sterile cold of the room, letting its soothing monotony lull me into a false sense of calm.
Through the frosted glass of the door, I saw two figures standing in the hallway. Even distorted, Coriolanus Snow was unmistakable. His silhouette was tall and commanding, every line of his posture exuding power and control. He stood with the same unshakable composure he always carried, an aura of authority that seemed to demand respectâor fearâfrom anyone in his presence. Even blurred by the frosted glass, I could sense the sharpness of his gaze, the calculating mind behind those ice-blue eyes. Beside him, the doctor looked small and uncertain, his shoulders slightly hunched as he clutched his clipboard like a lifeline.
My stomach churned as I watched them. The doctor gestured faintly as he spoke, his movements stiff and hesitant, as though he were choosing his words with extreme care. Every so often, he glanced at Coriolanus, his eyes darting toward him like a child seeking a parentâs approval. Coriolanus didnât move, didnât respond outwardly, but his mere presence was enough to command the entire interaction. Even here, in the sterile confines of the hospital, the weight of his influence was palpable. He didnât need to speak; his power was a constant, unspoken presence that loomed over everything.
The door opened with a soft creak, and the sound made my heart skip a beat as I straightened my posture. The doctor entered first, his expression carefully neutral, though his eyes flicked toward me with a mix of pity and reluctance. Behind him, Coriolanus followed, his movements precise and deliberate. The faint scent of his cologneâcrisp and sharp, like cedar and rainâcut through the antiseptic air. He closed the door behind him with a soft click, the sound final and unyielding, much like him.
The doctor cleared his throat, the sound breaking the silence like a shard of glass. He began, his tone professional but edged with hesitation. âAfter reviewing your latest resultsâŠâ He trailed off, his gaze flicking briefly toward Coriolanus, seeking some unspoken signal. Coriolanus gave the barest nod, and only then did the doctor continue. âItâs clear that your condition has progressed. The flare-ups are becoming more frequent, and the current medication is no longer sufficient.â
The words landed heavily, like stones dropping into my chest, one after the other. âI thoughtâŠâ My voice cracked, barely above a whisper. âI thought I was getting better.â
The doctor hesitated again, his hands tightening around the clipboard. âSometimes these conditions are unpredictable,â he said carefully, his words slow and deliberate. âWeâll need to start you on a new treatment plan. Itâs a stronger medication, and while it comes with potential side effects, it should help manage the symptoms more effectively.â
I nodded automatically, the motion robotic and detached, as though my body had moved without consulting my mind. It always happened like this. Every time I thought I was making progress, every time I allowed myself a glimmer of hope, it was snatched away. Improvement followed by relapse, hope followed by despairâit was a cycle I was trapped in, and I was tired of fighting it. The thought settled in my chest like a heavy stone, cold and unyielding.
Coriolanus moved then, stepping closer to you with a deliberate grace that made your stomach tighten. He placed a hand on your shoulder, the weight of it grounding and suffocating all at once. âI know this isnât the news you were hoping for,â he said, his voice smooth and measured, each word carefully chosen. âBut this new medication will help you. Iâll make sure you have everything you need.â
The doctor handed him a folded piece of paperâthe prescriptionâwith a motion that seemed almost reluctant. His eyes met mine briefly, and for a fleeting moment, I thought I saw something in them. Pity? Regret? Whatever it was, it disappeared as quickly as it came, replaced by the same professional detachment heâd worn when he entered.
Coriolanus nodded to the doctor, his tone polite but firm. âThank you, Doctor. That will be all.â
The doctor nodded stiffly, his movements tight and deliberate. âTake care, Miss,â he said, his voice softening slightly, though it did little to cut through the haze in my mind.
I weakly nodded again, my motions mechanical, my thoughts dulled by the weight of it all, not trusting myself to speak. The lump in my throat made it hard to breathe, and the walls of the room seemed to close in around me as I digested the information. As the doctor left, the silence that followed was suffocating. Coriolanus squeezed my shoulder gently, a subtle reminder of his presence, a silent signal to follow him.
âCome,â he said, his voice low and steady. âLetâs go home.â
I slid off the examination table, my legs feeling like lead as I moved to gather my things. The crinkle of the paper beneath me was loud in the oppressive quiet, a final jarring sound before I stepped into the hallway. As I followed Coriolanus out, I couldnât shake the feeling that I was leaving more behind than just the sterile confines of the room. Something inside of me had been left behind too, my hope.
The rain outside hadnât let up, the steady downpour creating a symphony of soft taps against the hospitalâs glass doors. As Coriolanus and I stepped into the hallway, the storm seemed louder, closer, as if the entire world were drenched in the same heavy weight pressing down on my chest. His hand never left my shoulder, its pressure firm, steering me like a ship through a tide I didnât have the strength to resist. My feet moved in time with his, though each step felt disconnected, like I wasnât in control of my own body anymore.
We passed room after room, the doors half-open, revealing glimpses of other patients. My eyes were drawn to them, even as Coriolanusâs hand guided me forward. In one room, a woman lay motionless in her bed, her face gaunt and pale, her thin arms resting limply at her sides. A monitor beeped steadily beside her, the sound faint but insistent, like a clock counting down. In another room, a man was hunched over in a chair, his head cradled in his hands, the kind of exhaustion on his face that spoke of battles fought and lost. The sights blurred together, each one feeding the gnawing fear in my chest. Is that my future? The thought clung to me like the rain clung to the windows, cold and inescapable.
Coriolanusâs voice broke through my haze, but it was like hearing him underwater. âWeâll have your favorite dinner tonight,â he said, his tone soft, almost kind. âAnd Iâll stay home with you. No work tonight. Just us.â He paused, his hand tightening slightly on my shoulder, the gesture almost possessive. âDoesnât that sound nice?â
I nodded, the motion automatic, disconnected from any real thought or feeling. A faint smile tugged at my lips, the kind of smile you give when someone expects it from you, not because you want to. My gaze remained on the passing rooms, each one a silent reminder of what could be waiting for me.
The rain was relentless, its presence enveloping the world around us as we stood in the lobby. It was louder here, the sound of it drumming against the glass walls a constant, unyielding rhythm that seemed to echo the weight in my chest. The streaks of water on the windows distorted the view of the city beyond, turning the Capitolâs towering buildings into blurred silhouettes. Their lights shimmered faintly through the storm, muted and dulled by the gray haze that cloaked everything. I couldnât decide if the sight was calming or oppressiveâperhaps it was both.
Coriolanus pulled a small communicator from his coat pocket, its polished surface gleaming faintly under the soft light. âBring the car around,â, his voice low but carrying an unmistakable command. As he slipped the communicator back into his pocket, his gaze turned to me. His blue eyes, sharp and penetrating, scanned my face with an intensity that made me feel exposed, like he could see every unspoken thought lurking beneath the surface.
As if the moment couldnât have come quick enough, the black car appeared, gliding to the curb like a shadow. Its polished frame gleamed under the rain, water beading and rolling off its surface in perfect, smooth rivulets. The driver stepped out swiftly, umbrella in hand, his movements quick and efficient. He was a man Iâd seen countless times before but knew nothing about, his presence always hovering at the edges of Coriolanusâs world.
As he approached, I caught a glimpse of his face, illuminated briefly by the dim lights of the lobby. His expression mirrored the doctorâs earlierâa tight, strained politeness that bordered on discomfort. His eyes flicked to mine for the briefest of moments, and I thought I saw something thereâsomething like fear, or perhaps duty so deeply ingrained it had choked out anything else. Whatever it was, it disappeared as quickly as it appeared, his gaze lowering as he came to stand before Coriolanus.
The umbrella opened with a soft snap, a shield against the unrelenting storm. Without a word, the driver handed it to Coriolanus, who took it with the kind of quiet authority that seemed to dictate every interaction around him. He held it over us, his other hand pressing lightly against the small of my back. âGo on,â he said, his voice soft but leaving no room for argument. âGet in. Iâll make sure youâre comfortable.â
I hesitated, my gaze lingering on the hospital behind me. The glowing facade loomed in the rain, its sterile, unyielding light spilling onto the wet pavement like a beacon. For a fleeting moment, I considered turning back, retreating to the cold, clinical detachment of its walls. It felt safer in its distance than the warmth Coriolanus offeredâan offering that always came with invisible strings. But his hand at my back applied the faintest pressure, guiding me forward, and I found myself moving without thought.
The interior of the car welcomed me with a warmth that was almost suffocating after the cold rain. The leather seats were smooth and cool against my skin, their faint scent mixing with the ever-present cedar of Coriolanusâs cologne. He slid in beside me, folding the umbrella with a practiced ease before handing it off to the driver, who returned to his post without a word. The door closed with a soft, final thud, sealing us in from the outside world. The rain became a muted hum, a backdrop to the quiet of the car and the faint purr of the engine.
âHome,â Coriolanus instructed, his voice steady, deliberate. The driver nodded, the car gliding smoothly away from the curb.
I stared out the window, the city outside blurring into streaks of light and shadow. Neon signs glowed faintly through the rain, their reflections shimmering on the wet pavement like fragmented pieces of another world. It was beautiful in its distortion, distant and untouchable, like something from a dream. My reflection in the glass was a stark contrastâpale and tired, my eyes hollow and rimmed with unshed tears. I tried not to look at it for too long, but it lingered in the corner of my vision, a ghostly reminder of the weight I carried.
Coriolanus reached for my hand, in a gesture that was both gentle and unyielding. His thumb ghosted over my knuckles, the motion slow and deliberate, as though he were trying to coax some life back into me. With his other hand, he reached up to my hair, his fingers gliding through my curls with a softness that sent an involuntary shiver down my spine.
The car ride felt like drifting through a dream, one where the edges of reality blurred into an indistinct haze. he sound of the rain was ever-present, a steady, rhythmic patter against the car roof that merged with the faint hum of the engine. It wasnât comforting. It wasnât soothing. It was simply there. I stared out the window, my eyes tracing the streaks of water as they raced down the glass, but the sights outside barely registered. The city lights, distorted and shimmering, passed in a swirl of gold and silver against the wet pavement, but they felt as distant as stars in the night sky. My thoughts churned endlessly, a tangled knot of emotions too heavy to unravel. The weight of the day pressed heavily on my chest, each breath a little harder than the last. My thoughts circled endlessly, tangling into a mess of guilt, doubt, and something I couldnât quite name. My hand rested in his, his thumb brushing over my knuckles in that slow, deliberate way, but instead of comfort, it only brought a creeping sense of suffocation. My mind spiraled, darting between the doctorâs words, the fleeting looks of pity Iâd received, and the heavy, inescapable presence of Coriolanus beside me.
When the car slowed, the shift in motion barely registered. It wasnât until the driver stopped and stepped out, the faint sound of the rain growing louder in the sudden stillness, that I realized we had arrived. Blinking as though waking from a long sleep, I glanced toward the window and caught sight of the house looming ahead. The sharp angles of its pristine white facade stood stark against the rain-heavy sky, the warm glow of its lights spilling out in quiet defiance of the storm.
A tear clung to the corner of my eye, unnoticed until I felt its chill against my cheek. I brushed it away with the back of my hand, the motion automatic and strangely detached, like it was someone elseâs tear I was wiping away. The door opened, and the driver was there, his umbrella poised like a soldier at attention. His movements were precise, practiced, the kind of efficiency that spoke of discipline but also a careful avoidance of anything personal. For a moment, our eyes met, and I saw something flicker in his expressionâa faint echo of the doctorâs earlier look, a blend of duty and something sharper. It was gone as quickly as it came, his gaze dropping as he held the umbrella higher, waiting for me to step into its shelter.
Once Coriolanus emerged from the car, his gaze quickly dropped from me onto the ground below me. Corioalanusâ movements were fluid and unhurried. He adjusted his coat with a subtle flick of his wrist before joining me under the umbrellaâs shelter. His hand found the small of my back, guiding me toward the grand entrance as I allowed myself to be led by him. The umbrella shifted slightly above us as he adjusted it, ensuring not a single drop would fall on my head, though his shoulders were speckled with water.
The house loomed larger with each step, its towering white facade glowing faintly against the stormâs dreary backdrop. The marble steps leading to the entrance gleamed under the rain, their slick surfaces reflecting fractured glimpses of the golden light spilling from the windows. For a moment, I hesitated, my feet slowing ever so slightly as I stared at the building. It looked like something out of a painting, too perfect to be real, its grandeur almost mocking in the face of the storm. The house was beautiful, undeniably so, but tonight, it felt imposing, its towering columns and immaculate design a reminder of how small I felt within its walls. Coriolanusâs hand pressed gently but insistently against my back, breaking my reverie and guiding me forward once more.
The servant at the door opened it with practiced precision, his bow low and exact, his movements almost mechanical in their efficiency. He didnât look at me, not reallyâhis eyes barely skimmed over my figure before fixing on Coriolanus with the kind of deference that bordered on reverence. For a brief second, I caught the faintest flicker of emotion in his expressionâa shadow of something that felt too fleeting to name. Was it pity? Resignation? I wasnât sure, and before I could decide, the moment passed, his face smoothing into the polite neutrality of someone who had long since learned how to mask their thoughts. The rain slipped from the edges of the umbrella as Coriolanus handed it off, the sound of droplets splashing against the stone floor oddly soothing.
Inside, the warmth enveloped me instantly, a stark contrast to the chill of the storm outside. The air was thick with the scent of fresh flowers, lilies mingling with the subtle aroma of polished wood and leather. Crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, their golden light spilling across the polished marble floors in shimmering pools. Everything about the space was designed to impress, from the intricate molding along the walls to the soft glow of the sconces that lined the hallway. It should have been comforting, this carefully curated display of wealth and power, but instead, it felt overwhelming, the sheer perfection of it all pressing down on me like a weight I couldnât shake. The house was beautiful, yes, but it wasnât warm. It was pristine, a masterpiece of design, but it lacked the lived-in messiness that might have made it feel like a home.
âRest for a while before dinner,â Coriolanus said, his voice calm and steady, yet carrying an undertone that left no room for argument. He removed his coat in one smooth motion, handing it to a waiting attendant without so much as a glance. His movements were fluid, deliberate, every gesture calculated with the precision of someone who knew exactly how much space they commanded. âYouâll feel better,â he added, his gaze settling on me with an intensity that made my breath hitch. There was no question in his tone, no suggestion that I might disagree. It was a statement, a certainty, as if my well-being were something he could dictate with his words alone.
I nodded, the motion small and automatic, as though my body were responding on its own. âPerhaps I will,â I murmured, the words slipping from my lips before I could think about them. They felt distant, hollow, as if I were borrowing someone elseâs voice to fill the space between us. The corners of my mouth lifted in a faint smile, one that didnât quite reach my eyes but seemed to satisfy him all the same. He lingered for a moment, his gaze lingering on me as though searching for something he wasnât quite sure heâd find. Then, with a slight incline of his head, he turned and strode down the corridor toward his study, his footsteps echoing softly against the marble.
I didnât rest. Resting felt impossible, the idea of lying in that massive bed, surrounded by soft linens and perfectly fluffed pillows, too stifling to bear. The very thought of it made my chest tighten, the weight of the day pressing down on me like a stone. Instead, I found myself drawn to the window, its towering panes offering a view of the rain-soaked grounds. The bench beneath it was soft, lined with cushions that felt almost too indulgent for the ache that had settled in my chest. I curled up there, tucking my legs beneath me and pressing my forehead lightly against the cool glass. The chill seeped into my skin, sharp and grounding, a welcome contrast to the oppressive warmth of the room
The room I slept in was so vast, Coriolanusâ way of showing me the treatment he thought I deserved, but instead I felt small here, swallowed by the grandeur of it all; a grand four-poster bed draped in silken fabrics, its headboard carved with elaborate scrollwork; a writing desk positioned by one of the roomâs smaller windows, its surface empty save for a single vase of fresh flowers; a seating area complete with armchairs and a low table, the kind of space meant for quiet conversations that never happened.Â
The room dwarfed me, its elegance a stark contrast to the gnawing emptiness inside my chest. The air felt heavier the longer I sat, the silence pressing against my ears until even my own breath seemed too loud. I curled up tighter on the window bench, tucking my knees against my chest as if making myself smaller might somehow lessen the weight of the space around me. The glass was cool against my forehead, a sharp reminder that the world outside this cage continued on without me, unbothered by my existence.
The rain continued its relentless descent, streaking down the glass in chaotic trails that blurred the world outside. Beyond the window, the gardens stretched into the darkness, their carefully manicured edges softened by the storm. The lights of the estate shimmered faintly through the rain, their golden glow distorted into shifting patterns of light and shadow. I followed the path of a single raindrop as it slid down the glass, merging with others before disappearing from view. There was something oddly mesmerizing about it, the way it moved unpredictably, as though it held a secret I couldnât quite grasp.
I was grateful to be home, I told myself. Grateful for the warmth, the shelter, the quiet that wrapped around me like a cocoon. Outside, the world was wild and chaotic, full of joys and freedoms I could never hope to experience. Here, within these walls, I was safe. Protected. Hidden. Yet, even as I tried to hold onto that gratitude, it felt hollow, as though the edges of it were fraying under the weight of something I couldnât name. The house was a sanctuary, yes, but it was also a barrierâa place where the outside world couldnât reach me, but where I couldnât reach it either.
I stared out at the rain-soaked grounds, my gaze tracing the endless trails of water that blurred the gardens and trees into a muted palette of green and gray. Beyond the estateâs walls, the world stretched out in ways I couldnât imagine, filled with wonders I would never see, joys I would never taste. The thought settled in my stomach like a stone, heavy and cold, pulling at the edges of my mind until it became hard to ignore. This room, this house, this carefully curated lifeâit was all I had ever known, and yet it felt so far removed from anything real.
 Why am I here? The question slipped through my thoughts like a whisper, delicate and fleeting. My hand moved almost without thought, fingers brushing against the cold glass of the window. The coolness seeped into my skin, grounding and yet strangely distant, as though I were touching something that wasnât really there. I watched the rain beyond the glass, its chaotic patterns blurring the world into something unrecognizable, unreachable. My fingertips lingered, tracing the faint condensation that had gathered on the surface, and I felt the weight of the thought pressing down on me.
Why am I here?
The question wasnât just about this room, this house, or even this life. It was something deeper, a quiet ache that I had never been able to name. Was there a reason for all of thisâthe endless routines, the careful balance, the constant feeling of being preserved and protected like something fragile and breakable? My hand slid lower on the glass, the smooth surface unyielding beneath my touch, as if even it refused to give way to my wandering thoughts.
The doubt began to creep in, threading itself through my mind like the rain streaking down the window. What was my purpose here? Was I anything more than a burden, something to be cared for and kept out of harmâs way? The room seemed to grow larger around me, its vastness pressing in on my small, curled frame. The grand furniture, the soaring ceiling, the soft golden lightâall of it felt suffocating, like a gilded cage meant to hide me from a world I would never know.
My gaze drifted back to the rain, following the erratic trails of the droplets as they merged and split, their movements unpredictable and yet strangely beautiful. I thought of the world outside, the one that carried on without me, filled with joys and freedoms I couldnât touch. For a fleeting moment, the thought came softly, unbidden: What if I wasnât here at all? My breath hitched, the idea settling in my chest like a stone. It wasnât angry or desperateâjust a quiet acknowledgment, a shadowy corner of my mind whispering truths I didnât want to hear. If I disappeared, would anything really change? The rain would still fall, the house would still stand, and the world would move on, untouched by my absence.
I pressed my palm flat against the glass, the chill biting into my skin like a reprimand. The thought lingered, heavier now, and I found myself gripping the edge of the cushion beneath me, the rough texture grounding me as I fought against the pull of my own doubts. Stop it, I told myself, the words harsh and insistent. I shouldnât think like that. I had no right to. The ache in my chest was my own burden to bear, but it didnât mean I should give in to it.
I forced my hand away from the glass, curling it into a loose fist in my lap. The cold sensation lingered on my fingertips, a reminder of the path my thoughts had taken. âYouâre better than this,â I whispered aloud, though my voice sounded small, almost childlike in the vastness of the room. I didnât know if I believed it, but I clung to the words all the same, as though saying them aloud might make them true.
The rain continued outside, steady and relentless, its rhythm unbroken by my turmoil. I turned my gaze back to the storm, letting the endless cascade of water fill my vision. I wasnât the rain. I wasnât free to simply exist, to move and flow and disappear without consequence. But perhaps that wasnât my purpose. Perhaps my reason for being here was something I couldnât yet see. The thought didnât bring comfort, not exactly, but it was enough to steady the trembling edges of my mind.
The world beyond the glass remained blurred and unreachable, but I stayed there, watching the rain and telling myself that the doubts would pass. They had to. For now, I would sit in this room, in this house, and try to remind myself that my place here, whatever it was, matteredâif only because I was still here to question it.
And then came the knock.
It wasnât loud, but in the stillness, it might as well have been thunder. The sharp sound jolted me, shattering the fragile thread of calm Iâd been clinging to. I pulled my hand back from the window as if caught doing something I shouldnât, my pulse quickening as I turned toward the door. The knock came again, softer this time, followed by the hesitant creak of it opening just enough for a maid to peek through.
âDinner is ready,â she said, her voice small and careful, almost apologetic. There was a nervous edge to her tone, as though she were unsure whether interrupting me had been the right choice. Her gaze lingered on the floor before darting upward to meet mine for the briefest moment.
I swallowed, my throat dry as I nodded. âThank you,â I replied, the words leaving my mouth almost automatically. My voice was steady, but quieter than I expected, like the weight of my thoughts still hung over me.
The maid nodded quickly, ducking her head before retreating from the room as quietly as she had entered. The door clicked shut behind her, and the silence rushed back in, even louder than before. For a moment, I remained where I was, staring at the door as if expecting her to return. The interruption had pulled me out of my spiral, but the lingering threads of doubt still clung to me, fragile yet persistent.
I exhaled slowly, smoothing the fabric of my clothes with trembling hands. My fingers lingered over invisible wrinkles, a futile attempt to press them out as though tidying my appearance might restore some semblance of order to my mind. My reflection in the glass caught my eye, pale and uncertain, my posture slouched in a way that felt unfamiliar. I straightened my back, forcing my shoulders into a semblance of composure. Youâre better than this, I told myself again, this time with more conviction.
Turning from the window, I glanced around the room, its vastness suddenly more pronounced in the dim light. The grand bed loomed in one corner, its silken sheets untouched, while the writing desk sat pristine and empty, a silent testament to a life I wasnât living. I resisted the urge to glance back at the window, knowing that if I lingered there again, the weight of my thoughts might pull me under.
The dining room was like a scene from a painting, too perfect, too composed to feel real. The chandelier above cast a golden glow that danced across the pristine table, stretching longer than it needed to, its polished surface almost blinding under the light. Each place setting was immaculate, every fork, knife, and plate precisely where it should be. Yet the grandeur of the room felt oppressive, as if it were bearing down on me, reminding me how small I was in comparison. The rain outside provided a soft, relentless drumbeat against the windows, its sound faint but unyielding, a background rhythm to the suffocating silence.
Coriolanus sat at the far end of the table, his posture so perfect it looked carved from stone. His sharp blue eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made my chest tighten, a faint smile curling at the corners of his lips. It wasnât a warm smile, not really. It felt deliberate, calculated, as though he were allowing me a moment to think I was safe. He rested his elbows lightly on the table, his fingers steepled, his presence filling every corner of the room. The distance between us, though vast, felt suffocating. Every time I glanced up, his gaze was there, steady and unwavering, like he could see through every thought I didnât dare voice.
The maids moved like shadows, their footsteps silent against the marble floor. One glided to my side, adjusting my chair ever so slightly, pushing it closer to the table until the edge pressed against me. Another refilled my wine glass, her hands steady, but I caught a flicker of hesitation in her movements. I muttered a soft âthank you,â but she didnât respond, her head bowed as she stepped back into the background. I noticed the way her eyes darted briefly toward Coriolanus before returning to the floor, the faintest tremor in her hands betraying an unease that mirrored my own.
I forced myself to pick up my fork, my fingers trembling slightly. The food on my plate was a masterpiece, a delicate arrangement of colors and textures that should have been appetizing. But it felt alien, like it didnât belong to me. Each bite turned to ash in my mouth, my stomach twisting with unease. Across the table, Coriolanus ate with deliberate precision, each movement of his utensils smooth and controlled. He wasnât eating much; he was watching me. His gaze was too steady, too penetrating, and the longer it lingered, the more I felt like an insect pinned beneath a magnifying glass. The silence was unbearable, broken only by the faint patter of rain against the windows and the muffled shuffle of the maids moving in the background. They moved like ghosts, their footsteps barely audible, their eyes flickering toward Coriolanus with an unspoken understanding that sent a chill down my spine.
âYouâve been quieter than usual,â Coriolanus said finally, his voice soft but unnervingly sharp. He set down his utensils with deliberate care, the clink of metal against porcelain echoing like a gavel in the stillness. âDo you have nothing to say? Nothing at all?â
âIâm sorry,â I said quickly, my voice trembling. âIâm just⊠I donât feel well.â
He tilted his head slightly, his blue eyes narrowing. âNot well,â he repeated, his tone deceptively calm. âIs that all? Or is there something else youâre not telling me?â His smile was faint, but it carried no warmth. It was a warning, a reminder that he could see through me.
I shook my head, my hands gripping the edge of the table. âNo, thereâs nothing else. I justâŠâ My voice faltered, and I dropped my gaze to my plate. âI donât know.â
âYou donât know,â he murmured, leaning back in his chair. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if he were giving me time to reconsider my words. âInteresting.â
The maids paused in their movements, their presence like shadows against the edges of the room. I could feel their unease, see it in the way their hands hovered just slightly too long over a decanter or a tray. They knew something I didnât, something that made my stomach churn with a sense of impending doom.
âI didnât mean it like that,â I stammered, my words tumbling out clumsily. âI appreciate it, I really do. Iâm justââ
âJust what?â he interrupted smoothly, his voice lowering slightly. His eyes narrowed, the faint smile on his lips disappearing as he leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. âTired? Distracted? Ungrateful?â
The last word hit me like a slap, and I flinched, my fingers gripping the edge of the table. âNo,â I said quickly, shaking my head. âIâm not ungrateful. I justâsometimes I feelââ
âFeel what?â he pressed, his voice growing quieter, more dangerous. âThat this is too much? That you donât deserve it? Or that you donât want it?â
âNo, itâs not that,â I tried to explain, but my voice cracked, betraying the panic rising in my chest. The maids moved silently around the edges of the room, their movements slowing as though they, too, sensed the shift in his demeanor. One of them hesitated by the sideboard, her hands trembling as she adjusted a tray that didnât need adjusting.
âThen what is it?â Coriolanus asked, his words deliberate, slicing through my feeble explanations.Â
âBecause from where Iâm sitting, it seems as though youâve taken everything Iâve given you for granted.â
The words were harsher than anything he had ever said to me, and for a moment, I couldnât breathe. He had never spoken to me like this before, not even in frustration. My chest tightened, and I felt my cheeks flush with both shock and embarrassment. âThatâs not true,â I said, my voice trembling. The word hung in the air like a slap, and I flinched, my hands gripping the edge of the table until my knuckles turned white. âIâm not ungrateful,â I said quickly, my voice trembling. âIâm grateful, Coriolanus. I swear I am.â
âAre you?â he asked, leaning forward now, his elbows resting on the table, his sharp gaze narrowing. His faint smile faded, replaced by an expression so cold and calculating it sent a chill down my spine. âBecause from where Iâm sitting, it seems as though youâve taken everything Iâve given you for granted.â
âThatâs not true,â I stammered, my pulse pounding in my ears. âI didnât meanââ
âWhat did you mean, then?â he interrupted smoothly, his tone dropping an octave. âDo you think this life is too much for you? Or perhaps, you believe you donât deserve it?â
âNo, itâs not that,â I said desperately, my words faltering as I tried to explain. âI just⊠I donât know. Sometimes, I feel like I donât belong.â
The admission hung in the air like a toxic cloud, suffocating and irreversible. Coriolanusâs expression didnât change immediately, but I saw the flicker of something dark and dangerous in his eyes. Slowly, methodically, he straightened in his chair, his movements so controlled it felt like watching a storm gather in slow motion.
âYou donât belong,â he repeated softly, almost to himself. He let the words linger, rolling them over like a bitter taste on his tongue. âAfter everything Iâve done for you, after everything Iâve given you, you dare to sit at my table and say you donât belong?â
âThatâs not what I meant,â I said quickly, my heart pounding so hard it drowned out the rain outside. âI just⊠I donât know. I feel out of place sometimes. Like Iâm not doing enough.â
âNot doing enough,â he murmured, his voice almost a whisper. He shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. âDo you know what it takes to ensure you have everything you need? The time, the effort, the resources? And youâre sitting here, telling me itâs not enough?â
âI didnât mean it like that,â I said desperately, my voice cracking. âIâm sorry,ââ I said quickly, my voice cracking under the weight of his gaze. âI didnât mean to offend you.â
âOffend me?â he said, his voice soft but seething. âNo, you didnât offend me. What youâve done is far worse. Youâve wasted what has been given to you, what others can only dream of having. And for what? Because youâre ânot hungryâ?â He leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on the table, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my stomach churn. âDo you know what it takes to provide this life for you?â
âI am grateful,â I said, my voice breaking under the weight of the moment. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. âIâm grateful for everything youâve done. I swear I am.â
âGratitude,â he said softly, his tone turning icy as he tilted his head slightly, studying me like a predator might study prey. âDo you even know what that means? Because from where Iâm sitting, your gratitude looks hollow. Empty. Like a facade you wear to appease me, nothing more.â
âThatâs not true,â I whispered, shaking my head, but my voice lacked conviction. The words felt weak, fragile, like they might shatter under the weight of his scrutiny. The rain outside pounded harder, the sound merging with the thundering in my chest, a relentless rhythm of fear.
The maids froze mid-motion, their faces carefully blank, but their eyes betrayed them. I saw the unease flicker there, a shared, silent acknowledgment of something I didnât yet fully understand. The maids exchanged glances again, their movements almost imperceptible, but I caught it. They werenât just silent; they were terrified. One maidâs hand trembled as she adjusted a wine decanter that didnât need adjusting, her eyes darting toward Coriolanus as though gauging when it might be safe to breathe again. The realization struck me like a blowâthey had seen this before. They knew this version of him, the one that simmered with a quiet, unrelenting fury. But I didnât. This side of him was foreign to me, and that unfamiliarity made it all the more terrifying.
Even the rain outside seemed to intensify, its relentless drumming against the windows a hollow backdrop to the suffocating stillness. My heart raced, a staccato beat that I was sure he could hear from across the room. His gaze bore into me, unflinching, cold, and I felt my breath catch as if heâd wrapped an invisible hand around my throat.
I opened my mouth, desperate to explain, to claw my way out of the pit Iâd inadvertently dug, but no words came. My throat felt tight, as though invisible hands were squeezing the air from me. The maids shifted nervously, their glances darting between him and me like animals watching a predator. They seemed to know what was coming, their wary expressions a silent confirmation of what I had begun to suspect: this wasnât the first time Coriolanus had unleashed this quiet, seething fury. But for me, this was uncharted territory, and the man sitting at the far end of the table no longer resembled the Coriolanus I thought I knew.
He raised his hand, and the nearest maid stepped forward instantly, her movements stiff but quick. âTake her plate,â he commanded, his voice calm but carrying a finality that sent a chill through the room. The maid didnât hesitate, her hands trembling slightly as she lifted the untouched plate from the table. The absence of it felt like a blow, a visceral reminder of just how easily everything could be stripped away.
âCoriolanus,â I tried again, panic rising in my chest, but he ignored me entirely
âQuiet,â he said sharply, his tone cutting through my words like a blade. He didnât raise his voice, but the command in it was undeniable.Â
He raised a hand, silencing me instantly, the gesture so precise, so commanding, that I found myself shrinking under the weight of his authority. âTake her plate,â he said, his voice calm, yet carrying a quiet menace that made my stomach churn.
The nearest maid stepped forward, her movements quick but visibly strained. Her hands trembled as she reached for my plate, her fingers brushing the porcelain as she lifted it away. The absence of the plate felt more significant than it should have, a hollow emptiness settling in its place. My chest ached with the realization of how effortlessly he could strip away something as mundane as a meal, a symbol of care now reduced to a calculated show of control.
âCoriolanus, please,â I whispered, desperation creeping into my voice, but he ignored me entirely. His cold, unrelenting gaze remained fixed on mine as though daring me to protest further.
âTake her chair,â
The scrape of wood against marble was deafening, and then, without the support beneath me, I fell hard to the ground. The impact was jarring, the cold marble biting into my knees and palms as pain radiated through my body. My breath hitched as I struggled to push myself up, my limbs trembling under the weight of my humiliation. The sound of the chair being carried away echoed in the now silent room, leaving me alone on the floor, exposed and vulnerable.
The clack of his shoes broke the silence, each deliberate step sending a fresh wave of dread through me. Coriolanus rose from his seat, his movements slow and controlled, his composure unbroken. The maids disappeared quietly through a side door, their departure as seamless as their service, leaving the two of us alone. Each footfall brought him closer, the sharp sound of his polished shoes against the marble floor growing louder, more oppressive.
âI didnât mean it,â I whispered, my voice trembling as tears spilled down my cheeks. âI swear, I didnât mean it.â
âStand,â he said, the command sharp and unyielding.
I tried to push myself upright, my arms shaking as I braced them against the cold floor. My legs felt weak, useless, and I collapsed back onto my knees, my breath coming in shallow gasps. âIâI canât,â I stammered, shame and fear choking the words as they left my lips.
His eyes narrowed, and without warning, he reached down, his hand gripping my arm with an iron strength that left no room for resistance. The suddenness of his touch made me gasp, and he hauled me to my feet effortlessly, his movements precise and controlled. My knees wobbled beneath me, my body leaning against his for balance before I quickly pulled back, trying to steady myself. His grip didnât falter, his hand unyielding as he turned toward the door.
âThis,â he said, throwing the door open with a swift motion, âis what waits for you out there.â
The storm roared beyond the threshold, the wind howling and rain slashing against the marble steps with relentless ferocity. The cold air rushed in, chilling me to the bone, and I recoiled instinctively, my arms wrapping around myself as though I could shield against the biting cold. The darkness outside stretched endlessly, a yawning void that promised nothing but chaos.
âDo you understand now?â Coriolanus asked, rising from his chair with a deliberate grace that made my knees feel weak. He circled the table slowly, his footsteps measured and purposeful, like the ticking of a clock counting down to something inevitable. âDo you see how easily everything you have can be taken away? How fragile it all is? Is that what you want?â
âNo,â I sobbed, my voice breaking as I shook my head. Tears streamed down my face, mixing with the rain that clung to my skin. âI donât want to go. Please, Coriolanus. Donât make me go.â
âThen prove it,â he said, his voice deceptively soft, each word delivered with a measured precision that made the air around me grow colder. It wasnât a shout or even a reprimand; it was a challenge, calculated and cutting. His tone demanded submission, his icy blue eyes pinning me in place as though daring me to contradict him. His hand on my arm tightened slightly, enough to remind me of his physical presence, his control. âConvince me,â he continued, leaning in closer, his voice dropping to an almost intimate murmur. âBecause right now, all I see is someone who doesnât understand the gravity of their position. Someone so blind, so ungrateful, that theyâd rather throw away everything theyâve been given.â
My breath hitched, a shiver rippling down my spine. His words struck a chord deep inside me, each one carefully chosen to cut through my defenses and twist the knife. I tried to look away, to retreat from the intensity of his gaze, but his fingers moved to my chin, tilting my face upward with deliberate force. The gesture was controlled, not violent, but it carried a weight that made my heart pound painfully against my ribs.
âDo you think anyone else,â he continued, his tone softening but losing none of its edge, âwould have done what Iâve done for you? Do you think anyone else would have kept you alive, sheltered, cared for, when the world outside would swallow you whole without hesitation?â His thumb brushed against my cheek, a movement so slight and calculated it made my stomach twist. âNo,â he answered himself, his voice like steel wrapped in velvet. âNo one else would. No one else could.â
I wanted to argue, to tell him that wasnât true, but my throat felt like it was closing. Words died before they could form, and I was left trembling under his relentless gaze. âI didnât mean it,â I finally managed to whisper, the words cracking as they left my lips. âCoriolanus, I swear, I didnât mean it.â
âDidnât mean it?â he echoed, his lips curving into the faintest semblance of a smile, though it carried no warmth. âWords, darling, are meaningless without action. An apology without understanding is hollow. A lie.â
âIâm not lying,â I protested weakly, my voice trembling as tears spilled over my cheeks. âIâm sorry. I swear, Iâm sorry.â
âSorry isnât enough,â he said, his voice cool and measured, like a judge handing down a sentence. âGratitude isnât a word you utter when it suits you. Itâs knowing your place. Knowing that without me, you wouldnât just be lostâyou wouldnât exist.â
His words landed like a physical blow, and I felt my legs weaken beneath me. The rain outside seemed to roar louder, a violent symphony that mirrored the storm brewing in my chest. I tried to hold his gaze, but the weight of it was unbearable, and my vision blurred with tears. âIâI understand,â I stammered, the words trembling on my lips. âI do. Please, Coriolanus, I understand.â
He studied me for a long moment, his piercing gaze never wavering. His hand remained on my chin, keeping me locked in place, and I could feel the warmth of his breath against my skin as he leaned in closer. âDo you?â he murmured, his voice dropping to a near whisper. âBecause right now, all I see is a child throwing a tantrum, blind to the reality of their situation. Blind to the lengths Iâve gone to ensure their survival.â
âIâm grateful,â I sobbed, the words tumbling out in a rush. âI am. I swear, Coriolanus, Iâm grateful.â
His thumb pressed slightly against my jaw, a subtle reminder of his control, before he released me abruptly. The absence of his touch left me unmoored, trembling as I tried to steady myself. He stepped back, his icy gaze flicking over me as though assessing whether I was worth the trouble. Then, with a deliberate slowness, he adjusted the lapels of his suit, smoothing the fabric with practiced ease.
âGood,â he said finally, his voice returning to its usual controlled cadence. But then he leaned in once more, his hand catching my chin again with a sharpness that made me flinch. His eyes burned into mine, and when he spoke, his words carried a menace that froze me in place. âIf you ever forget again, Iâll remind you. And you wonât like how I do it.â
I bit back a sob, nodding frantically, the tears on my face mingling with the rain still dripping from my hair. My knees threatened to give out, but I forced myself to stand, every muscle in my body trembling. His grip on my chin tightened for a moment longer, his eyes narrowing as though to drive his point home, before he finally released me. I staggered back slightly, my hands trembling at my sides.
âClean yourself up,â he said, his voice calm now, almost indifferent. âAnd get back to the table. Dinner isnât over.â
With that, he turned and walked back toward the dining room, his footsteps echoing against the marble with an unhurried grace that made the contrast between his composed exterior and my internal chaos all the more jarring. He reached the table, smoothing his suit as he lowered himself back into his seat. When he glanced up at me, his lips curled into a faint smile, as though the scene that had just unfolded was nothing more than a momentary hiccup in an otherwise pleasant evening.
I remained frozen in the doorway, trembling, my hands clenched into fists as I tried to stop the shaking. The storm outside raged on, its fury a stark contrast to the eerie calm that had settled over the dining room. The maids began to move again, their steps quiet and practiced as they brought fresh dishes to the table, their faces carefully blank. Coriolanus picked up his fork, his movements slow and deliberate, as though savoring the meal in front of him.
But his smileâit lingered, soft and satisfied, a chilling reminder that this was his world, his control. And as his words echoed in my mindâWithout me, you are nothingâI realized with bone-deep certainty: He owns me. Entirely. And thereâs no escape.
author's note : throwback to when john carter needed help putting in a IV, more john carter specific fics to come! enjoy
(do not copy or plagiarize, original work)
The Pitt is wrecked.
Not in the literal, structural senseâbut in that raw, unspoken way that lingers after everything goes wrong all at once. The adrenalineâs drained, but the chaos hasnât cleared. It hangs in the air like smokeâthick, invisible, choking. Voices bounce down the corridor, overlappingâcode calls, short tempers, the dull whir of overworked machines. Someoneâs arguing about intubation two beds down. Someone else is crying, quietly, behind a curtain.
Your scrubs are streaked with blood and iodineânot yours. You donât know whose anymore. You stopped keeping track two hours ago. The sleeves are damp, the collar stretched, and you can still feel the ghost of someoneâs pulse under your fingertips from the last room you left.
You push into a curtained trauma bay, closing the partition behind you with a soft swishâjust to shut the noise out for thirty seconds. The patient on the bed is sedated, intubated, and still. Chart says stable, but barely. Youâve been told to place a second IV. Routine. Simple.
But your hands are trembling.
You breathe in slow through your nose, eyes on the tray. Alcohol swab. IV needle. Tape. You know this. Youâve done it a hundred times. Your fingers twitch slightly as you glove up.
Youâve done this before. Itâs fine.
You find the vein. Clean the site. Draw back.
Then hesitate.
Your angleâs off. You know it is. But your body wonât move right. The hum of The Pitt is still in your head, buzzing like static, and your chest feels just tight enough to throw you off.
âToo shallow.â
The voice cuts through the fog before you hear the curtain open.
You flinchânot from the words, but from the timing.
He says nothing else at firstâjust stands beside you, his presence like an anchor dropped in the middle of the storm. Steady. Centered. The air around him seems quieter somehow, like the chaos of The Pitt canât quite touch him here. Like it doesnât dare.
You swallow hard. Your fingers twitch on the catheter, your grip not as solid as it should be. The room feels too warm and too cold all at once, the hum of the vitals monitor sinking into the ringing in your ears.
âIâve got it,â you manage, voice stiff, barely hiding the shake. Not defensiveâjust too tired to pretend. You donât even believe yourself.
âI know.â
He says it like fact. No judgment. No pressure. Just something still, quiet, and sure. Like he does know. Like heâs seen it before.
He steps closerânot crowding, not performing. Just there. And somehow, thatâs more grounding than if heâd grabbed the needle himself.
His hand lifts, slow and precise, and his fingers brush the back of your wrist. Barely a touch. Just enough contact to steady the axis of your grip.
âAnchor deeper,â he says quietly. âLet the vein come to you.â
You blink, nod, reposition. Your body listens to him faster than your mind can keep up.
The needle slides inâclean. Smooth. Blood return.
You exhale like youâve been underwater. Your shoulders ease down from where theyâd been locked near your ears. You press the tape over the IV, gentle now, almost reverent with how deliberate your movements are. Like the whole thing could fall apart if you breathe too loud. You peel off your gloves slowly this time, not in frustration or embarrassmentâbut with care. Like youâre coming back into your body.
Robby doesnât say told you so. He doesnât step away. He just stays there. Standing beside you. Watching the monitor with that same unreadable calmâthe kind of silence that doesnât need to be filled.
You glance up at him, eyes flicking sideways.
âThank you,â you say, softer now. Real.
âGood stick,â he says. Low. Almost too low to catch over the beeping monitor.
It lands softâlike a compliment passed between breaths. Like something he didnât mean to say out loud, but did anyway.
Your chest eases. Not because of the words themselves, but because of the way he said themâsteady, quiet, like he meant it. Like it was okay to take a moment and acknowledge something done right.
You glance at him, just long enough to check for judgment, critiqueâsomething. But itâs not there. Heâs composed, calm. Just watching with the same quiet focus he brings to everything else. Not clinical exactly, but measured. Level. Like he sees youânot just the task.
You hesitate, pulse steady now but your throat tight. âThank you, Dr. Robinavitch.â
The name hangs awkwardly in the air between you. Formal. Too formal. You know it the second you say it.
But he doesnât correct you right away.
He just holds your gaze a second longer than necessary, head tilted slightlyâlike heâs deciding something.
Then, finallyâvoice low, deliberate, just above a whisper: âRobby is fine.â
You barely have time to process it before someone calls his name from outside the curtainâsharp, urgent.
He turns toward the voice, already moving, already slipping back into motion. But right before he pulls the curtain aside, he glances back at you with a tight lipped smileâquick, unreadable, and gone in a breath.
And just like that, he disappears down the hall. You let out the air you didnât realize you were holding.
Just enough to breathe again. Just enough to feel yourself settle. Then you turn back to the patientâheart steady, hands quiet.
